Heart's Compass
by Juliette's solo act
Summary: Hermione returns to Hogwarts after the war to find that Draco is among those returning too. The two are forced to work together on an assignment, and discover more than just how to brew the perfect potion. Haunted by the past, will they find a future?
1. The Potions Assignment

**Obviously, I own nothing, unless you spot any OCs. Those are mine.**

**This is a product of my sleeplessness, but who knows, if you guys like it enough, maybe I'll continue. Please feel free to leave constructive criticism, I want to improve.**

**Anyway, enjoy (hopefully)**

* * *

"Would it kill you to stop making asinine comments and _focus_ for once?" Hermoine Granger snapped at her blonde lab partner, who was currently smirking and leaning backwards with perfect grace on two legs of his stool. She muttered something that sounded remarkably like 'insufferable git' under her breath, then turned back to the thick volume before her.

Draco Malfoy's grin widened, thoroughly pleased with his efforts. Admittedly, when he had plucked Granger's name out of the (still slightly sticky) jar that had once housed crystallised pineapple chunks, he hadn't bothered to hide his grimace of distaste. He had even tried to surreptitiously pick another name, prepared even to settle for the walking calamity that was Neville Longbottom, but Slughorn had slapped his hand away. However, he had soon realised that even though the next few months would not be pleasant, he could at least make them bearable by annoying Granger. He shot the bushy-haired girl a quick glance, as though trying to spot any weak points in her fortress of untamed brown curls. At that instant, she turned and brown eyes met grey. Malfoy held her stare unwaveringly, waiting for her to crack and look away first. To his surprise, she didn't, and instead her dark eyes melted to unfathomable depths. Malfoy tore himself away, almost embarrassed. Out of the corner of his eye (while he scrutinised the dusty jars lining the walls on the other side of the classroom with more care than was entirely necessary), he saw one corner of her mouth quirk upwards with poorly suppressed humour, before she turned back to her book once more.

From this position, with her back turned to him, she spoke.

"You'd better help me pick a potion, if you don't want to fail completely."

"Granger, asking me for help? Never thought I'd live to see the day," he replied lazily.

"I'm not asking, I'm ordering. I'm not about to let some slimy idiot get in the way of my NEWTS," she bit back, still leafing through the potions book.

It pained him to admit it, but she did have a point. Slughorn had made it very clear that they would be graded on teamwork, so these decisions had to be made together. The thought of working in such close quarters with Granger had him positively missing Snape's teaching… But Snape was gone, killed in the war that had claimed his entire family. The memories rose unbidden to his eyes, and the solid walls of the potions classroom faded away.

* * *

_His mother gripped his hand tightly as they fled through the Forbidden Forest, mere paces behind his father. Suddenly, pain seared through his forearm. He gasped and stumbled over a protruding root, clutching his arm to his chest. Lucius had also halted and was leaning against a tree, looking even more ashen than usual. Draco watched from the ground as his father wrenched up the sleeve of his robe to reveal the Dark Mark. Except it was no longer dark – it was white hot. A great wave of cheering reverberated through the trees, and in that instant their marks split open and blinding white broke through their skin. Draco's eyes rolled back in his head as the pain consumed him._

_Draco blinked, realising his cheek was no longer pressed against the damp forest floor, but against cold, unyielding stone. He sat up groggily and took in the site before him: walls out of which huge chunks had been carved as easily as if they had been made of butter. He rubbed his eyes with his good hand to clear the last of the black spots from them, and located the unconscious bodies of his mother and father, a few metres away. At least, he hoped they were unconscious. He made to stand and move closer to his parents, but a gruff voice from the corner halted his steps._

"_I wouldn't do tha' if I were you". The _oaf_ was giving him orders? He sneered, and began picking his way through the rubble. He hadn't made much progress when a freezing spell caught him square in the back._

"_You never forget, y'know. It's like riding a broom" Hagrid said, waving a wand proudly, seemingly unaware that the movements caused sparks to fly out of the end and ignite his beard. Briefly, Draco wondered who in their right minds would have given the idiot half-breed a wand, but he remembered that the war left no one in their right minds. The war… Given that the oaf was still alive, and brandishing a wand no less, Draco could only assume that the Dark Lord had lost. Which meant that he was in no small amount of trouble._

* * *

Thankfully, Granger's whining shook him from his less-than-pleasant reverie. He sighed and picked up his own potions book, turning to the table of contents. He closed his eyes and jabbed his finger on the page at random. Opening his eyes again, he read the words 'Heart's Compass – Page 239'.

Draco nudged Granger with the tip of his quill and said simply, "This one."

She turned to the corresponding page, and after a few moments, nodded almost happily.

That, if anything, should have warned him that it would not be an easy potion to make.

As the scraping of chairs and gathering of books announced the end of the lesson (and not a moment too soon for Draco's liking), Granger handed him a piece of parchment.

"What's this, Granger, a declaration of your undying love for me?" he said with his characteristic smirk. She snorted, almost singing "You wish" over her shoulder as she disappeared into the corridor. He glanced down at the paper and saw that it was a list of things he had to do in order to prepare the potion. It was double-sided.

His eyes narrowed – if she thought he was going to be doing all the work for this 'team', she was sorely mistaken.


	2. A Letter Left Behind

**Hello everybody.**

**Oh, if you're wondering why I'm uploading so regularly, it's because I've got exams coming up and this is the best form of procrastination EVER.**

**If you have any suggestions/comments/whatever, I'd love to hear from you. **

**I get the feeling this is going rather slowly and is a bit rambly and short... Sorry :/**

* * *

"Granger! Granger! OI, GRANGER!" Hermione's head whipped around to confront the boy she had been steadfastly ignoring.

"What is it, Malfoy?" She knew the war was over, and that they were supposed to all be one big happy wizarding community now, but she couldn't help but spit out his name as though it burnt her tongue. Old habits die hard.

"If you think I'm doing all of _this_," he said, brandishing her list and waving it about in her face, "think again. I'm a Malfoy, not a fucking house elf."

"What's the difference?" she spat back, knowing that any attack on his name would anger him beyond belief.

Instead, the anger disappeared from his eyes and was replaced by something much, much worse. Pain. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, his silver eyes were looking oddly shiny, as though he were holding back tears. _Tears_. Her heart gave an uncomfortable twinge at the realisation that she had made Malfoy cry. Unconsciously, she put a hand out to comfort him as she would Ron or Harry.

"Trying to cop a feel, Granger?" he said, slapping her hand away rather harder than was necessary. Just like that, the pain and sadness she'd read in his molten silver eyes was gone, replaced by a lazy condescension. He wore the mask of a slimy git so well, she began to question whether his eyes had really been that expressive, or whether she was trying to turn him into something far more human than he actually was.

"In your dreams, Malfoy. That, by the way," she said, pointing at the parchment in his hand, "is only your fair share of tasks. I tried to assign them equally but obviously I forgot that the great Malfoy can't even wipe his own arse. My apologies for forgetting, your Lordship." She turned as if to go, but Malfoy caught her arm and whirled her back around to face him.

"The post of arse-wiper is open, and you've already proved you're interested, so feel free to make it official any time soon. However, I'm not going to be doing all of _your_ dirty work, so I'll assign the tasks." With those words, he smirked and let go of her arm. She rubbed the spot he had held reflexively as it cooled while she spoke.

"Yeah, right, because that will be completely fair division. Look," she sighed with irritation, running a hand through her messy hair, "I've got a free period just before lunch. Come to the library and we'll do it together."

Malfoy looked appeased. "It's a date," he sneered.

_No it most certainly is not_, Hermione countered in her head. She let him have the last word, however, as she was already late for Herbology. So late, in fact, that she had to run the last 50 metres across the grounds to the Greenhouse.

* * *

"Just in time, Miss Granger, but please try not to cut it so close in future," said Professor Sprout jovially. "Now class, I have a special treat for you all. Hogwarts has recently acquired a brood of Jobberknoll fledglings, and the Herbology department has been charged with recreating their natural environment. This will become the body of your NEWTs coursework. So, can anyone tell me which plant is most essential to their survival?"

Predictably, Hermione's hand shot up. It was comforting to know that, despite her unforeseen year away, she hadn't lost the ability to answer every question before any of her classmates.

"Fluteweed, Professor?"

"Exactly right – five points to Gryffindor. What purpose does flu—Yes, Miss Granger?" Hermione's hand was already waving before the question was even out of Sprout's mouth.

"When wind blows through the grass, the weeds play melodies (usually lullabies, but it all depends on the soil conditions) that nurse the Jobberknoll to sleep. Without it, they can't sleep and die of exhaustion withing 24 hours." Although the pace at which the words tumbled out of her mouth was fast, it was no longer the regurgitated torrent of words taken from the textbook. Hermione had learnt the hard way that her teachers were only mere mortals and couldn't keep up with the speed of her tongue.

"Excellent, take another five points. What is the staple food source of the Jobberknoll?"

This time, another hand shot up seconds before hers. Professor Sprout looked extremely pleased, smiling fondly at her favourite pupil.

"As fledglings they rely mainly on flobberworms, but as they develop into fully grown adults they become adept at finding Valerian, which contains the pigment they need for the characteristic blue of their feathers."

"Well done, Neville. Ten points to Gryffindor." Hermione chose wisely to ignore Professor Sprout's blatant favouritism, concentrating instead on how much Neville had changed since they were last at school together. The year she had spent away from Hogwarts with Ron and Harry chasing down horcruxes and generally saving the world had really benefitted him. He was more confident since his spell as leader of the student rebellion against the Carrows, and surer in his abilities. One year of not being stifled and out-competed by Hermione had given him the space he needed to shine. A blush rose to his cheeks, staining his ears a bright red. It was nice to see that despite all the changes to his personality, he retained his humble and good nature. She smiled fondly and looked around the classroom at all the familiar faces assembled before her.

Luna was staring in to space, as ever, sporting a remarkably normal pair of earrings: two glimmering white rosebuds, complete with drops of morning dew. Hermione supposed they were a gift from Dean, who had proved himself to be an extremely caring boyfriend. Next to her, Ginny was doodling on a piece of parchment with a slightly dreamy look on her face which could only mean that she was thinking of Harry. Hermione recalled the terrible fight between Mrs Weasley and her daughter that summer, when Ginny had been expressly forbidden from joining Harry as he started his career as an Auror. It had not been a pleasant experience for anyone.

Towards the back of the classroom sat a much-altered Pansy Parkinson. Physically, she was still the same as ever, but she was subdued and quiet, sitting apart from the rest of the class as though afraid. She was isolated from the rest of her classmates, who were mostly Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. The few Slytherins in the year below avoided Pansy, well aware that she had been on the wrong side of the War, and not wanting to appear supportive. True to their Slytherin natures, they abandoned one of their own out of self-preservation. Hermione turned away in disgust, but not before catching Pansy's dulled eyes and giving her a small smile.

Hermione's attention was recalled to the front of the class before she could see the effects of her attempt at warmth, and she rattled off the correct answer to Professor Sprout's question almost unconsciously.

The rest of the lesson passed in the same style, except when Hermione was occasionally beaten to the answer by Neville Longbottom, something which never failed to surprise her, despite the numerous times she told herself that she was proud of him.

* * *

Hermione hurried to the library, eager to begin researching Jobberknolls. She was so completely absorbed by the book she was reading that the slam of books on the table next to her caused her to squeak. She earned a disapproving look from the strict librarian, who happened to be reordering books nearby, and looked up furiously to see who had caused her silent admonishment. Malfoy. How typical.

"What do you want?" she asked him less than sweetly, slamming her book shut in anger.

"You told me to come, remember, so we could do this thing democratically? Personally, I thought it was a stupid idea but…" he shrugged, seemingly asking himself why he'd actually bothered to listen to her. Hermione was a little surprised he had showed up, and more than a little surprised she had forgotten about their meeting.

"Oh right, because democracy is a stupid idea. Yeah, we all know where those ideals landed your lot last time," she snapped back, irritably.

For the second time that day, she saw Malfoy's steel reserve melt a little and his eyes became molten silver again. Before she could lean closer to read the pain swirled in amongst the blue flecks, he blinked and the façade slipped firmly back in to place again.

"Will you just hurry up so I can get the hell out of here? The less I have to hear your annoying voice, the better."

Malfoy pulled out a chair at the table, and Hermione hopped down from the windowsill where she had been nestled to join him. He pulled out his copy of 'Standard NEWT Potions' and Hermione noticed for the first time how battered it was. The pages with instructions and information on their potion was annotated in a glaring shade of pink, a colour she was pretty certain Malfoy would never use under any circumstances. As far as she knew, he didn't have any female relatives, other than his mother and aunt Bellatrix, neither of whom really seemed like the type to dot their 'i's with tiny hearts. Which could only mean that Malfoy, the snobbiest of all the snobs, was using a second hand book…

Hermione was shaken from her train of thoughts by Malfoy putting a pot of (black) ink down on the table rather harder than necessary. Hermione countered by whipping out a roll of parchment with such force that she swore she heard her elbow pop, desperate not to be outdone in showing how little she wanted to be there.

Many minutes later, Hermione's stomach's loud gurgle interrupted yet another of their whispered arguments, signalling that it was most definitely time for lunch. If they hadn't missed already: this had taken far too long already. Malfoy refused to do the bare minimum amount of work, claiming that she was giving him more to do. Hermione had tried to point out that, yes, he had more to do, but he also had easier things to do. She had given herself all the hard tasks, there just happened to be fewer. Besides, she was busy taking six other NEWTS, while he was only doing four. He was impervious to her logic, too fixated on the idea that he had more to do that she did.

Another rumble from her stomach, so loud that Madame Pince turned around to see whether she could bully someone for disturbing the peace of her library, was the final straw.

"I've had enough of your idiocy. I'm going to lunch, and since we can't divide it fairly, we'll have to do everything _together_. I hope you're happy" she whispered as vehemently as possible.

"That's just what you wanted from the beginning, isn't it? Honestly, Granger, if you wanted alone time with me, you should have just asked like a normal girl," he said, remarkably unaffected by the idea that his workload had doubled now that he knew that she would be doing exactly the same amount as him. _Stupid ferret-faced git,_ she couldn't help thinking in exasperation.

"Trust me, Malfoy, it's the last thing I want, but since you're too stupid to make rational decisions, or have them made for you, it's what I've got." And with that, she stalked off, praying that lunch had not been cleared away yet.

Malfoy heaved a relieved sigh as he watched the bushy-haired girl turn down a row of shelves and out of sight. He fished out a book from his satchel and hoisted himself with effortless grace on to the windowsill. Turning to put his legs up, he noticed a folded piece of parchment lying discarded on the cushion opposite him. Curiosity got the better of him, and he picked it up and began to read.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I understand the way you're feeling – it's weird for me too, and I'm sorry I tried to pressure you into making it official. I know I'm not good at all of this, and that I make a lot of mistakes all the time, but that's what I love most about you. You're so perfect, and you never seem to cock up like the rest of us. I've wasted so many years wishing I had the courage to tell you how I felt about you, and then in the middle of the war I finally found it (at the worst time imaginable, typical me) but I never got to say properly it because you kissed me. I couldn't have been happier, floating on air almost, and then Fred –_

Malfoy got bored, and allowed his eyes to skim the rest of the way down the letter, hardly bothering to decipher the messy scrawl. The last few lines caught his attention and he was unsure whether to laugh or to retch.

_I love you, Hermione. I've loved you for a very long time, and I know you might not be ready to say it back yet, but I want you to know that I'll wait. As long as it takes._

_Ron._

The Weasley, King of the hand-me-downs, was the author of that very long and nauseating letter? Malfoy made up his mind: he snorted with mirth in an uncharacteristically unattractive fashion. Once his burst of humour was over, he began to contemplate the idea. Of course it made perfect sense that Weasel and Granger would get together, even fitting in a way (her dubious blood wouldn't even make a mark in his ridiculous family tree). But the very idea of anybody expressing love for Granger seemed so alien that it perplexed him. He had barely realised she was a girl until recently, merely seeing her as an object of hatred and ridicule.

Suddenly an image popped unbidden into his mind. The way she'd looked at the Yule Ball in their fourth year had certainly been feminine. He remembered every detail about the way she looked that night, finding himself unable to take his eyes off of her and hating her for it. He watched her sparkle in the candlelight as she danced with that overlarge Durmstrang fellow, giggling prettily. He'd noticed the way small wisps of hair had been freed from the elegant up-do and framed her face, drawing attention to her slightly pink cheeks and her warm brown eyes. When she delicately took a bite of strawberry, Pansy had to resort to kicking him to get his attention away from her full, rosy lips. For that one night, Malfoy saw something he liked very much in Granger. Luckily though, she appeared the next day in her regulation robes and untamed her and returned to being the object of his loathing and condescension.

And now? What did he see her as now? The question was surprisingly difficult to answer. He had never forgiven her for hitting him all those years ago, loved taunting her maybe even more than Quiditch, and disliked her newly-discovered caustic sense of humour. He especially hated the moments her words stung him into letting his guard down, the way she leaned in closer staring deep into his eyes… Thankfully, his stomach chose that moment to let him know that it wanted food, and pronto. Draco gathered his things and slipped the letter into his pocket for further consideration.


	3. The Golden Birds

Hermione dragged her feet on the way to her Thursday morning Potions class. She had been up late last night, tortured by Ron's letter and her unclear feelings, and the last thing she wanted right now was to have to endure three hours of Malfoy's inane comments or hear him whining about how much they had to do. He had picked the potion, for Merlin's sake! True, his methods of selection had been dubious to say the least, and she was seriously considering choosing it anyway, but it felt easier just to blame him for everything that was wrong in her life right now. If only she could find a way to hold Malfoy accountable for her unpleasant situation with Ron, her life would be much better.

She had reached the heavy door to the potions classroom by now, and turned the slightly rusted ring handle with only a moment's hesitation. Her unwillingness to endure three hours of Malfoy was overridden by her desire to do well. Not that she particularly needed to try hard in Potions, as Slughorn fawned over her at every opportunity: she was part of the Golden Trio, after all, and considerably intelligent. Slughorn wanted to collect her very badly indeed… Hermione wondered briefly if she could use her leverage with the bumbling old professor to switch partners and find herself someone who wasn't capable of inducing a skull-splitting headache within ten minutes or even someone with the ability to converse normally. She rejected the idea with some difficulty, but managed to convince herself that Malfoy was a challenge – she'd never been able to resist challenges.

Nevertheless, her mood still plummeted as she headed towards her seat beside the blond boy who was, as usual, smirking. By the time she'd made it across the classroom, her temper was positively foul. She slammed her books down on the desk, violently dragging the stool out from under the desk and plonking herself on it with a grumble. The commotion earned her a few odd looks from other students in the classroom, and one perfectly raised eyebrow from Malfoy. That only served to send her into an even worse mood, as raising her eyebrow was one of the few things she had never been able to master. The fact that the slimiest git in the school could do something that she couldn't, and do it so _gracefully_, almost sent her over the edge.

"So, class, I hope you've all managed to decide on a potion to brew as your coursework," Slughorn began, breaking off to take in the self-satisfied smiles and nods Hermione's classmates were giving each other. "Good-o. Before I allocate rooms to you, would one of your pair please come up and write the name of your chosen potion (and both of your names) on this please?"

Malfoy didn't move, clearly expecting Hermione to do all the work. She prodded him sharply with her quill and gave him a look that clearly said _If you think I'm getting up, think again_. He rolled his eyes complied without further comment, clearly understanding that picking a fight now would result in his swift murder.

"Everybody done? Yes? Good. As I'm sure you're all aware, I cannot actually make suggested changes to your methods, only mark you accordingly. However, what the exam board doesn't know won't kill them, eh? So with that in mind, I might be coming round to discuss some _non-potions related _topics with some of you," Slughorn paused to wink dramatically at the class and pop a pineapple chunk into his mouth. "In the meantime, you will each be given a key to a spare lab room. Professor McGonagall has taken the precaution of charming them so that only you and your partner together can open the door. Obviously, she seems to suspect some of you will attempt to sabotage each other's work – and I wouldn't put it past some of you, especially jokers like Miss Granger over here!" Slughorn concluded his grand speech with a theatrical head-jerk in Hermione's direction, before beaming at her as though to clarify that he was making a joke. She mustered up a weak smile in response, but it seemed to do the trick as he then bustled around the room handing out keys of various shapes and sizes. Oddly enough, Hermione could have sworn she recognised a large, rusty old key which Slughorn handed to Ginny and Luna (only the last time she'd seen it, it had had wings). Professor Slughorn came to Hermione and Malfoy last, proffering them a delicate golden key, barely larger than Hermione's little finger. He looked utterly delighted with himself, leaning in and whispering, "I'm supposed to distribute the rooms randomly, my dear, but I won't tell if you don't!" With another comically large wink, he bustled off, rubbing his rotund belly and smiling vaguely around the room.

* * *

Once out in the corridor the potions class scattered, equipment in hand, to find their allotted rooms. Hermione followed the small tug of the key in her palm – Slughorn informed them that Flitwick had not only charmed them to lead the way to their classrooms, but also to act as a sort of egg-timer to let them know when certain brewing phases were complete. She was relieved to see that Malfoy was keeping his distance, and was even saddled with most of the equipment. Not that they were carrying much, as Slughorn had hinted conspiratorially that they should "travel light", whatever that meant.

The pair halted in front of a modest wooden door.

"Are you sure this is it?" Malfoy asked.

Hermione lightly traced the intricate rose detail of the little golden key, feeling the magic lightly thrum under her fingers. She nodded, reaching out a hand for the handle, which was wrought with the same rose. The key turned in the lock with no resistance, and she swung the door open to reveal the room they would be spending the majority of their term in. She couldn't prevent a small gasp from escaping her lips as she took in her surroundings. Looking back at Malfoy, she saw the same sense of wonder etched across his face.

A crystal cauldron stood on a white marble table in the centre of the room, shattering the sunlight that poured down on it from a large round window in the ceiling into a thousand rainbow fragments. All around the room were phials, books and equipment, housed in glass cases and white marble shelves. The back wall was partially taken up by a wide bay window, through which more natural light filtered in, with the same rose design as the one Hermione had traced on the key. It was, in a word, beautiful. Malfoy unceremoniously dumped the equipment he had carried from the dungeons in a corner, where it sat looking shabby and infantile by comparison.

"Well this is…nice," Malfoy said quietly.

"Understatement of the century, Malfoy," Hermione replied, but the surprising room had drained the anger from her voice. She stood stock-still near the cauldron, eyes moving furiously to and fro as she tried to take in every inch of her surroundings at once. In her peripheral vision, she saw Malfoy move towards one of the glass cases holding a row of beautifully bound potion books. He slid back the glass and plucked one out from amongst the row. Crossing to the bow window, he settled himself with his legs up on the cushion and began reading. Not to be outdone, Hermione unstuck herself from her spot and moved towards the case bursting with ingredients, some of which even she'd never heard of. She pulled a spare piece of parchment from her robes, as well as a self-inking mini quill she had accidentally borrowed from the library and began to scribble furiously, as she was wont to do.

After several minutes (fewer than five or more than twenty, it was impossible to tell in that place) of unadulterated tranquillity, Draco looked up from his book to see Granger writing, as usual.

"What're you doing?" he drawled lazily, the words distorted by the yawn that accompanied them.

"Making an inventory – we've got so many ingredients here already, it's going to halve our preparation time."

"Joy of joys," Draco replied, almost sarcastically. He genuinely was happy about the idea of having to spend much less time doing work, and much less time with Granger in general, but he wasn't about to let on that he actually had emotions.

He stretched out his legs and rested his cheek against the cool glass, which looked over a piece of the grounds he had never seen before. Abandoning his book for the moment, he stared out at the expanse of gardens beneath him. The only garden he'd been to in the Hogwarts grounds was the Herbology garden, but that was purely functional. Here, every detail was aesthetically crafted for the enjoyment of nature. It was beautiful, every colour and shape of flower imaginable blending perfectly into one another. A light breeze outside seemed to create the illusion that the colours ran into each other in a wonderful river of vitality, and the garden was alive with minuscule birds who flitted here and there, the sun catching their golden feathers and setting them ablaze. In the far corner stood an ancient weeping birch tree, and beneath its graceful boughs was positioned a carved white bench. If he had thought that the room he was currently in was a surprise, one look outside told him that he had far more to discover about his school than he had originally thought.

Obviously, Granger had to ruin the moment. She had probably noticed that he was enjoying himself for once, and decided that this simply could not be allowed. She wandered over and stood by his shoulder, following his gaze to the garden below.

"It's beautiful," she gabbled, "but how come I've never seen it before? I mean, I've never even read about it – it's not in 'Hogwarts: A History', how is that possible? I wonder what it's for…"

"Not everything in life has a purpose, Granger, although yours seems to be to annoy the shit out of everyone," he snapped as she shattered his serene mood with her incessant prattling. He swung his legs down from the window ledge with such speed that he nearly kicked her. Serves her right for ruining the one moment of true peace he had actually managed to find since everything had gone wrong. He groaned internally as he realised what was coming, but no amount of willpower on his part could stop the dreadful memories from once again consuming his mind.

_He stood, flanked by his mother and father, facing the Wizengamot. Their day of judgement had finally come, preceded by months of nervous wait. August 23rd, a Wednesday – it was, for most, just another day of the holidays where they could laze around in the glorious sunshine. For him and his family, far removed from the normality of life and stood in an enormous room where no natural light could ever hope to filter through, it was their day of reckoning and it was not going to be pretty, by any means. Rows upon rows of plum-coloured robes, nameless witches and wizards who would be deciding the fate of him, his mother and his father and who were all decidedly biased against them. Who could help but hate them? They had run from the final throngs of battle, deserting both sides like the cowards that they were. They had been found unconscious in the Forest, halted in their spineless escape by the sudden explosion (for want of a better word to describe the phenomenon of their own skin splitting open and a beam of light breaking through) of the mark which earned them so much hatred in the eyes of the Wizarding community. They had not had the integrity to belong to either side: they did not belong with the fervent lovers of Voldemort, whom they had abandoned like rats fleeing a sinking vessel, but nor were they able to be welcomed with open arms by people they had fought against in the war that had changed everyone._

_Thus they stood, the three of them, close enough to feel the heat from one another's bodies but forbidden to seek desperately-needed comfort in the touch of an arm or a hand, waiting. Lucius' eyes were unfocused, his head bowed towards the floor under the great pressure of the hatred emanating from the faceless mass of plum robes. He was a broken man, the last ounces of his spirit destroyed by those he had once considered unworthy even of a glance from his eyes. Narcissa stared straight at the Minister for Magic, her grief and worry almost hidden by a perfected façade of pride. She bore herself well, his mother, to the very end. Draco's eyes combed the tide of faces before him, seeking out those with amusingly ugly features to distract his mind from the enormity of what was to come. He had reached the third row from the top, detachedly admiring the enormous bulbous nose of a short old wizard with tufts of white hair springing from his balding scalp when the Minister spoke. The whispers which had suffused the hall ceased immediately and everyone fell silent to listen to the final verdict._

"_Lucius Malfoy, the Wizengamot finds you guilty of crimes most heinous, including harbouring Tom Marvolo Riddle in your own home, knowingly placing a life-threatening object of Dark Magic into the hands of Ginerva Weasly, then a child of 11, and using Unforgiveable curses willingly under direction of Riddle. As an ardent follower of Riddle, you bore the Dark Mark for many years and performed acts of inhumanely grotesque natures. The Wizengamot therefore sentences you, who have forfeited your right to a life through the destruction of so many others, to the Dementor's Kiss." The last words echoed around the silent hall, and for a long time after the last 's' had faded from human hearing, Draco heard it resonate yet in his ears. Lucius' position was unchanged, as though he had not heard a word of what had been spoken, but his mother's carefully maintained mask had shattered, and silent tears rolled down her alabaster cheeks. Her entire frame shook with the effort of remaining standing, but she stood resolute and did not look away from the Minister of Magic as he solemnly delivered his verdict._

"_Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, the Wizengamot finds you guilty of harbouring Tom Marvolo Riddle in your own home, knowing with absolute certainty who he was and what horrors he had committed and had yet to commit. You did not, however, bear the Dark Mark and you have since admitted that all you have done against your country you did for the sake of your son, who stands here also. Therefore, the Wizengamot has decided to show leniency, and you will not be sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss." Draco's whole body relaxed when he heard those glorious words. His happiness was premature, however, as the Minister of Magic went on after a slight pause, "Harry Potter has submitted his witness report, claiming that you in fact lied to the man calling himself Lord Voldemort, thus saving his life. This act has granted you some leniency. We have come to a decision that, as punishment for your transgressions, you will spend one year living amongst Muggles, with a full memory wipe. You will be closely monitored and if, at the end of this period, the investigators are fully convinced that in such a Tabula Rasa situation, you will not sink to a life of immorality, you will be returned to the Wizarding world, your son and all of your memories." Draco's mouth fell open at the injustice of their decision – without his mother, Potter would be dead and the war would not have been won by these people. She was a fucking hero, and she was being banished? Before he could find his voice to scream blue murder, the minister's eyes fell upon him._

"_Draco Malfoy, you have been found guilty for the attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore, venerated headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. You too bore the Dark Mark upon your arm as a follower of he who called himself Lord Voldemort. However, Dumbledore's last memories beg this court to show mercy, taking in to consideration both the corruptibility of age, and the fact that you acted for the preservation of your family and not through ardent belief of your own. Therefore, the Court has come to the decision to withhold your funds until such a time as a reliable character witness proves you to be an altered person, fully repentant of _all_ of your ways. You will return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to complete your education, and you will spend the remainder of this summer in a Muggle boarding facility. Your headmistress, Professor McGonagall will make regular reports to an investigator on your behaviour, and should it prove to be against the rulings of this court, you will face banishment to the Muggle world or indeed a sentence of indeterminate length in Azkaban." The whispers which had started up after each of the minister's speeches once again died down, and all eyes focused on the Malfoys as the trio was led from the courtroom, each as broken as the other._

Malfoy looked down at his hand, surprised to find it balled so tightly into a fist that the skin over his knuckles was stretched and white. He blinked twice to clear the last wisps of the memory from his mind, and looked up, realising that Granger was standing extremely close to his face looking utterly livid.

"You are just asking for me to hit you again, aren't you? Are you ever going to respond, or am I too far below the high and mighty Malfoy for you to dignify me with an answer?" she shouted.

He winced, cowering away from her voice. Inexplicably, her face softened slightly and she looked abashed. He looked at her quizzically as a faint suffusion of pink rose to her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I'm not in a good mood and it's not fair of me to take it out on you. Even if you're an annoying git…" she trailed off uncomfortably. Had Granger actually just apologised to him? It really was a day full of surprises.

"Merlin, no need to go all girly," he said. He had intended to snap back, resolving not to show weakness, but apparently his voice had other ideas. His throat was still tight, constricted by unshed tears, so his withering comment came out deflated and weak. Suddenly, he was struck with the ideal way to regain the upper hand in the conversation. "Say, this wouldn't have anything to do with Weasel, would it? Can't make up your mind whether to get some of that ginger loving?"

It was the perfect thing to say: her mouth opened and closed wildly as she searched speechlessly for something to say while the blood flooded to her cheeks. Granger was lost for words, probably for the first time in her entire existence. Finally, she found her voice and squeaked a very pathetic, "Shut it, Malfoy," before storming to the opposite side of the room and staring intently at a row of potions books. He chuckled and turned back to his long-abandoned book, letting the peace of the room wash over him once more.

For a long time he registered nothing but the words between his hands, but too soon the letters began to dance before his eyes and he shut the book with a sigh. He scanned the room, looking for Granger lazily. When he realised she had disappeared from view he began to panic, wondering just how long he had sat reading. Long enough, he assumed, judging by the lack of feeling in his posterior. He started to cross the room in long strides to put his book away and hurry off to class, but stopped when he realised that Granger hadn't disappeared, after all. He found her lying on her stomach, a gold-and-leather-bound book acting as a makeshift cushion for her head. She was dozing lightly, her eyelashes fluttering against her rosy skin and her full lips parted slightly in the abandonment of the unconscious. The worry lines that permanently creased her skin had smoothed, leaving it flawless. One stray curl rested upon her cheek, drawing Draco's eyes to the soft rose of colour on her cheekbone. It looked so soft and inviting that, without thinking, Draco put a hand out to tuck the curl behind Granger's minute ear. She stirred at the contact, but did not wake. The movement was enough to shake Draco from his bizarre mood, and he shook her shoulder to wake her, all traces of intimacy and gentleness gone. She blinked groggily and groaned slightly, propping herself up into a seated position. Draco straightened, smiling slightly despite himself as he caught her eye, bright with not-long banished sleep.

"Nice of you to join the land of the living, Granger. Need I remind you, we have work to do," he said, turning to the correct page in the book and rolling up his sleeves. She was at his side a minute later, rattling around and generally making a lot of unnecessary fuss. He rolled his eyes, but watched as, face still softened by sleep, she allowed herself to be consumed by activity. The sunlight streaming in from the rose window he had just vacated hit her hair and he couldn't help but be reminded of those golden birds who flitted around the garden below him and blazed in the sun's rays.

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**For some reason, the top bit won't let me write. Not much to say, anyway. It's shorter than I thought it was, again, how rubbish.**

**Oh, and May the Fourth be with you all. International Star Wars Day, apparently. **


	4. A Midnight Garden

**This, technically, should still be a part of the last chapter, because that's the way I'd planned it yesterday, but I got tired and just uploaded the first bit. Working on lengthening my chapters, slowly but surely. Let me know if you spot anything else I can do to improve, by the way.**

**Also, much love to those of you who review (and say such nice things, too). Don't be afraid to be critical, though, that's how I'll learn. Anyway, enjoy.**

* * *

Hermione bustled around the room, uncomfortably aware that Malfoy's eyes were trained upon her every movement. Something in his attitude towards her had changed infinitesimally since she had woken to his face hovering inches above his own. His eyes had been molten silver again, but this time flecks of gold had shone out from the swirling metallic grey. The pain she had caught in his eyes earlier that day was still there, but pushed to the background by something unreadable and thus much more terrifying. She rolled her eyes, chastising herself for sounding far too much like the quack, Trelawny. Soon she'd be asking to read his palm, or interpreting crumbs on his plate after lunch. What a load of rubbish. She was obviously exhausted, not having had a proper nights' sleep since that blasted letter had arrived by owl the second day of term, if she thought that she could read Malfoy's emotions just by looking into his eyes. She turned back to him, where he sat by the crystal cauldron grinding Chancillion wings into a fine powder, as per instruction. He happened to glance up and catch her eye, still with that unreadable expression on his face. His eyes lowered to her lips, at which point she flushed and turned away, utterly confused.

After a few more minutes standing as far away from Malfoy as possible under the pretence of searching the ingredients' store for Essence of Laetae, she felt the familiar fingers of sleep begin to creep over her body once again. Obviously the nap had not done much to abate her exhaustion. Once again, she cursed the letter and her overactive mind. If only Ron had waited until the Christmas holidays, they could have had a proper conversation. It would have given her time enough to figure out what she wanted, and she would have been able to sleep easily (or more easily, at least). But Ron was his usual impulsive self. He'd probably written the bloody thing without even thinking. Unconsciously, she reached up to feel for the letter in her inside pocket where it had lain since it had arrived that fateful morning. There was nothing there. Panic rising in her throat, she began to furiously pat herself all over, searching desperately for the folded piece of parchment. Malfoy probably thought she was possessed - - Malfoy! How had he known about Ron and his "ginger loving", as he had so crudely put it? Unless…unless she had left the letter in the library yesterday when they had argued and she had stormed off? She whirled round, fury blazing in her eyes.

"Where's my letter, you piece of filth?" she spat, storming closer to him. He looked up in surprise at her sudden explosion of ire, caught sight of her face and paled ever so slightly. He stood quickly, backing away from her advancing figure, and putting his hands up in a calming gesture.

"Look – Granger, I – Calm down, will you? Let me explain –" he said desperately. She was too far gone to listen or to think rationally. Besides, he was running out of space to back in to.

"Shut the _fuck_ up you little shit. How dare you? How bloody dare you to take things that aren't yours and read them? That was _private_, you slimy, nosy, disgusting, thieving bastard. Give it back to me." She thrust a hand out violently, noting with satisfaction that he flinched at every one of her insults. His body collided with a wall, and he found himself trapped in a corner. And yet, he didn't yield up her letter.

Anger consumed her, and her voice dropped to a menacing, frightening tone dripping with loathing. "You should have rotted in Azkaban with the rest of your kind," she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. Pain lashed across his face, contorting his usual façade of cold superiority and twisting it into something infinitely more human. Then the grief was gone and anger took its place. He began to advance, his pale face drained of emotion but his eyes radiating pure, unadulterated rage. He crossed in front of the window and the sun caught his hair, setting it alight as though he were burning. It was Hermione's turn to back away, but he moved far too quickly. Within seconds he had her pinned against the wooden door, his hand at her throat. He said nothing, only tightened his grasp on her until she fought to breathe. Her anger drained away and she closed her eyes, willing herself to be brave. Despite her best efforts, one small, hot tear crept from beneath her long eyelashes and began its slow descent. The grip on her neck loosened immediately and she slumped to the floor, gasping for breath. She did not open her eyes, not yet, but heard a few footfalls and then a _crash_ as glass shattered.

Once she had regained control of her breathing, she ordered herself to open her eyes. Blinking out the last few tears that obscured her vision, the world cleared and she found herself looking at Malfoy's back. He gripped the white marble table so hard that the skin on his hands matched its colour perfectly. His head was bowed, and his shoulders were slumped as though the anger had drained from him and left him unable to stand. She eased herself to her feet, picking her way through the debris of the shattered phials which lay in long shards. Without a word, she picked up her bag, leaving the books she could not collect without coming close to Malfoy for another time. She turned around once more before the door swung shut behind her, and Malfoy's profile against the bright sun was burned into her retinas. It was only as she was nearing Gryffindor common room that she realised that Malfoy had not returned her letter. The anger she had felt course through her veins had clouded her mind to the point where the letter, the catalyst for her horrible, horrible words, had simply slipped from her thoughts. She shuddered as she remembered what she had said to him, the bitter aftertaste of the words still lingering on her tongue. Hermione felt like a monster when she recalled the tortured look that had twisted Malfoy's beautiful features beyond recognition. A small voice in the back of her mind wondered exactly when she had started to think Malfoy's features were _beautiful_, but she brushed the thought away as she gave the password to the fat lady in a hoarse voice and stepped inside the common room.

Unfortunately, the only other person in the common room was Ginny Weasley, precisely who Hermione had been hoping to avoid. No such luck – this was shaping up to be a bad day. Ginny looked up at the sound of the portrait clicking shut after Hermione, and got to her feet. Hermione opened her mouth to make a lame excuse and run off to her room, but Ginny interrupted her before she could force her sore vocal chords to make a sound.

"Please just sit down, Hermione. I don't know what my idiot of a brother said," Ginny smiled apologetically, "but it can't have been so terrible that you're now avoiding me too." Ginny seemed to genuinely be upset, and guilt gnawed at the fringes of Hermione's conscience. _Oh good, yet another thing I have to feel bad about_, Hermione sighed. She said nothing, but did as Ginny asked and took a seat on the worn sofa next to the redhead.

"Are you going to tell me what he's gone and done now, then?" Ginny said after a few minutes of scrutinising Hermione, whose hand instinctively went to her throat as though to hide any evidence of her confrontation with Malfoy from Ginny's inquiring eyes.

For a while, as Hermione considered how best to tell Ginny, the only sound in the common room was the soothing crackle of logs as the burnt on the fire. "He wrote me a letter," she began, reluctantly, wincing at the sound of her own hoarse voice. "I got it a week ago exactly, and I still haven't figured out how to reply."

"What did it say that's got you so upset?" the other girl asked, gently.

"I don't know, that's what I don't understand. I mean, he was really sweet but…" Hermione trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. She herself didn't know what her objection was to accepting Ron's admission of love. Until recently, it had been everything she'd ever wanted, so why didn't she want it anymore?

"Can I see the letter?" Ginny's voice interrupted Hermione's self-interrogation.

"I…erm…lost it?" It came out as more of a question than a statement. Hermione truly was a terrible liar. Ginny looked hurt, clearly assuming that Hermione didn't trust her enough to show her the letter, and she frowned at the entirely transparent lie.

"Look, I'm sorry to pry in your personal affairs. I just thought that, since he's my brother and you're my best friend, I'd be able to help somehow. I'm sorry you don't feel the same way – I thought that after all we'd been through, you'd be able to trust me by now. I guess I was wrong." She stood up abruptly and made as though to storm into her room. Hermione reached out and held her arm, knowing that if she allowed the redhead to walk away, Ginny would hold it against her for a very long time. She supposed there was nothing left for her to do but tell the truth.

"Ginny, wait. It's true that I don't have the letter anymore; I left it behind in the library yesterday when Malfoy pissed me off beyond belief. He must have picked it up and read it, because he knows about Ron telling me he loved me. I think he still has it, actually," she said, almost reluctantly.

"Okay, let me see if I've got this right: Ron loves you and Malfoy stole your letter?"

"Yeah, that's about right," Hermione sighed.

"Let's deal with the first bit first. Ron Billius Weasley, my brother, has actually managed to pluck up the courage to profess his love to you? Wow that must have taken a lot of firewhiskey." That had been Hermione's first thought too, but the writing was that of a sober and coherent Ron, more eloquent than she'd ever heard him before, "I thought you loved him too? How come you aren't over the moon about this whole thing?" Ginny continued, to which Hermione only shrugged. "I know that you guys kissed during the War (typical Ron timing) and then the whole thing went to shit when Fred—" Ginny broke off, unable to say the word; the gaping hole that Fred's death had ripped in the Weasley family was still raw, "but you were there for him through all of that. I mean, all summer you guys would be off together in the fields around our house. I'd never seen him so happy, and I think it really helped mum and dad through it all, knowing that at least some joy had come of that bloody battle. What changed? Is it because he didn't come back to Hogwarts with you?"

"Partly, I guess. I mean, at first I felt frustrated because I couldn't mourn his loss with him. Every time I tried to get close, he pushed me away until I felt that I didn't really belong. Eventually, I caught him off-guard long enough for me to kiss him, because I thought that maybe the only way he'd let me in was physically. It turns out I was right, and slowly I got him to look happier by being more and more physical with him. I think it took his mind off of Fred for a while. But his happiness was more of an illusion than anything – when he thought I wasn't looking, his eyes would darken with grief. He was so changed, so horribly changed. It was like he was possessed by the Horcrux again, only infinitely worse because instead of anger there was just _nothingness. _I tried everything I could to bring some life back into his eyes, but nothing really worked. I thought it did, at first: when I kissed him, he seemed to respond, but I realised too late that he was just going through the motions. He came to my room sometimes, used me and left without uttering a single word. It made me feel so dirty that I just couldn't bear it anymore, and I confronted him. He hit me that night, and part of me has never forgiven him for that. I try to empathise and to understand, but I can't get past the fact that he attacked me when I had done everything, _given _everything to help him. The minute he lifted a hand to me, I no longer recognised him as the Ron that I had loved for such a long time. I finally saw what I had been hiding from all along – that my Ron was gone.

"That next morning I left suddenly, having told you that my mother had fallen ill. I went home, and stayed away from you all until term began. I remember panicking, wondering whether he'd come and see you off at the station, but thankfully he wasn't there. And then, two days in to term and after several weeks of complete silence, I get a letter from him filled with sweetness, with words that I'd longed to hear fall from his lips since I was eleven. He told me that he loved me more than anything in the world, that I was perfect and that he would wait for me as long as he needed to. But it was nothing like I dreamed it would be – he'd written it all down, probably caught up in some drunk, spur-of-the-moment passion, and I couldn't help but see his face filled with hatred as he hit me. It was all so _wrong_ that I just ran away from it, as I had done that night, and I haven't stopped running. I haven't slept since it arrived, and I can barely bear to look at you because you remind me so much of him. I'm so lost…" Somewhere in the middle of her story, tears had begun falling silently from her eyes and now, as the last words faded from her lips, the sobs consumed her body. She buried her head in her hands, her stoic attitude vanishing with every sob, and felt a warm arm slip around her shoulders. Ginny pulled her in to a comforting hug and held her wordlessly until Hermione's tears subsided. Then, when Hermione had rubbed her eyes and grimaced with embarrassment at her loss of control, Ginny began to speak.

"I think it hit Ron and George the hardest, Fred being gone. I mean, mum was devastated, we all were, but mum had dad to comfort her. George had only really ever had Fred – they were connected in a way that none of us understood, a connection that ran deep in their blood. George began to waste away (you left before the worst of it, trust me) without Fred there. They'd always shared everything, and it was as though George was now left with half of a body, half of a heart. George stopped eating, stopped moving. Sometimes we would barely catch him breathing. He looked like he was simply waiting to join his brother, waiting patiently that death might take him too. And with every inch that George sank into darkness, so did Ron. You have to understand that the three of them were very close. I was always slightly on the outside, being a girl, and Bill, Charlie and Percy were too old or too different to be included, but those three were made of the same stuff. Ron had grown up with those two teasing him to death, but not in the way they teased the rest of us. He was under their wing. When the twins first discovered their magic, they enchanted two cups and turned them into one of those Muggle contraptions that dad was always banging on about – a walkie-talkie, I think they were called. They gave Ron one of the cups, and the three of them would run around the garden playing at being aurors. When Fred died, I guess it seemed like the radio had fallen silent. There was a tangible hole in our family. So I understand Ron's behaviour up until the point where he hit you. I've never seen him lash out violently, ever, and I just can't understand that _you_ – the girl he's secretly loved since you wandered into their carriage looking for Neville's toad (yes, he told me) – would be his target."

"But it doesn't change the fact that I was," Hermione said quietly, "and I'm not sure I can forgive him for that. I… I gave him everything I could give him to try and bring him back to himself. I gave him my virginity, and he took it without emotion. He hurt me in so many horrible ways…"

Ginny's eyes widened slightly but she made no comment, seeing Hermione's eyes begin to glitter in the fading afternoon light. The younger girl reached out and enveloped the older's hand in her own. They sat in unbroken silence, watching the golden light dip behind the trees.

* * *

As evening drew to a close, Hermione found herself apprehensively wondering about what night would bring her this time. She had left Ginny to her younger friends as people began trickling in to the Gryffindor common room after lessons had finished because removing herself to her room had seemed like the best option. She was not in a sociable mood, and preferred the comforting silence of her own room to the happy, meaningless prattle of her fellow Gryffindors. She had never been more thankful that the returning Eighth years were granted their own private rooms than today, when all she wanted was to sit on her windowseat, resting her head against the glass and think of nothing. The last thing she wanted to do was hold a forced conversation with girls she didn't really know or associate with, trying to overcome her differences for the sake of blending in. Her stomach grumbled loudly, reminding her that she wasn't _that_ different that she didn't need food once in a while. Her encounter with Malfoy had lasted well over lunch, and she had spoken with Ginny so long that it had been nearing time for dinner when she had escaped to the privacy of her own room. She simply couldn't face going to the Great Hall with the rest of the school, on the off-chance that she saw caught a glimpse of Malfoy, or that her eyes suddenly decided to betray her and start leaking again. Her stomach loudly announced its disapproval at her decision to forego yet another meal today, but before it had even ceased grumbling, a loud _crack_ shattered the silence.

A female house-elf wearing the usual Hogwarts tea towel had appeared in her room, her tiny arms shaking with the weight of a groaning tray laden with food. Hermione did not have time to question the little creature, as the second the tray had been deposited on her bed, the house-elf disapparated with a snap of her fingers and another loud _crack_.

_I am having the strangest day today_, Hermione thought, lightly hoping down from the window sill and approaching the tray with slight suspicion. The smell of food tickled her nostrils and pulled her closer. She lifted the silver cover to reveal the feast beneath. In the far corner, three golden white bread rolls were nestled in a small wicker basket, still steaming as though fresh from the oven. Small platters of rice and vegetables orbited the main dish - carved slices of honey roasted pork - and one single slice of chocolate fondant cake, adorned with a raspberry comfit beckoned at her from the other corner. Hermione could feel herself salivating, and her stomach urged her brain to stop wondering whether this was a trick and tuck in. It didn't take long for Hermione to listen to the sensible ideas of her ravenous stomach. She ate until she could eat no more, at which point the food and the tray vanished. For a while, she remained immobile on her bed, incapacitated by the stupendous amount she had just consumed and feeling uncannily like a wallowing hippopotamus as she lay sprawled across her bed. It was then that she realised that a hole inside her had been momentarily filled, and, for the first time since the incident with Ron, she felt close to whole again. Hands lightly resting on her belly, she allowed sleep to claim her.

_Hermione had been sitting in the Hogwarts library not moments ago, but suddenly the scene before her eyes shifted and morphed into her room at the Burrow. Her heart sank, knowing what was coming next. She watched, immobile and invisible in the corner as though under the _Petrificus Totalus_ spell, while Dream Hermione sat on Ron's bed, absentmindedly staring out at the sunset. The door opened quietly, so quietly that Dream Hermione did not hear it, and Ron walked in. Dream Hermione looked round and smiled a smile that broke Hermione's heart. Ron answered with a terrible grimace which barely passed as a smile. She saw it now, the unfathomable void in his eyes and the cracks in his shoddy mask of happiness, but she hadn't seen it then, blinded as she was by new love. Her stomach churned as she watched Dream Hermione stand on tiptoes to kiss Ron, and she knew what that kiss had meant. It was a wordless admission of love and hope of a happy future. She saw how Ron moved his hands almost robotically to thread them through Dream Hermione's hair, too roughly._

_Dream Hermione shifted in slight discomfort but ignored the warning her brain was sending her. _Stupid, stupid girl_ Hermione screamed wordlessly at herself, _listen to your heart – don't do this, not again._ But Dream Hermione went on, oblivious, and Hermione watched in growing horror as her past self deepened the kiss with Ron, hoping beyond hope to bring him back to himself with her body. He stood, woodenly, while she tried to incite passion in him. When she realised that it wasn't working, she broke off, and took a few steps back._

"_I'm sorry, Ron. Should I just go?" Hermione heard her own voice say, hurt evident in her eyes._

_Ron's back stiffened, and something in him snapped. He crossed over to Dream Hermione in one step and began furiously kissing her. What Dream Hermione mistook for passionate love, Hermione saw as fury. Ron attacked her with kisses, mashing their lips together, while his large hands pawed her body. And she sat there, taking it all, lapping it up even. Hermione closed her eyes in a wave of nausea, willing herself to wake up so that she wouldn't have to witness every instant of that night again. But it was to no avail. She opened her eyes again to find that Dream Hermione was shirtless, remembering well how Ron had ripped her white shirt open, sending buttons cascading and rolling all over the floor. She had not said a word in protest, pretending to herself that it was an act of love rather than one of violence. One of Ron's hands was now fondling her breasts, still encased in her white cotton bra, the epitome of naïve innocence, while the other had wandered beneath her skirt and was wrenching her underwear down to mid-thigh. He released her for an instant to unzip his flies, and bile rose in the Real Hermione's throat as she watched the fear slowly appear on Dream Hermione's face. Ron did not even notice, she doubted whether he would have cared either way. Flies unzipped, Ron's hands returned to Hermione. He backed her up against a wall and she allowed herself to be pushed, as limp as a doll in his hands. Ron lifted her slightly, and held her in position. Then it began – roughly, violently, he claimed her. He paid no head to her pathetic whimpers of pain, but continued at the same animalistic pace. Tears streaked her cheeks and her hands clenched as he came inside of her. He dropped her once he had satisfied himself, letting her crumple on the floor, and walked out of the room without a word. _

Never again, _vowed Hermione as she watched herself shake in the corner like a pile of dirty, used rags, _never again will I let a man cloud my judgement.

Hermione awoke and barely made it to the toilet before she started retching. She wiped her mouth and flushed away the last remnants of that night's rich feast, glancing at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were sunken in her pale face, ringed with dark bags from lack of sleep, and her cheeks were hollow. She had not been able to keep a meal down since the dream had started, and it was beginning to show in the lines of her face. She averted her eyes and brushed her teeth furiously, trying to scrub away the lingering sense of being dirty which was not only down to her vomiting fit. When that didn't work, she almost threw herself into the shower and scrubbed her skin raw, drawing small comfort in the familiar scent of her orange blossom soap. Nothing could quite rid her of the feeling, but it helped a little.

She knew she would not sleep again tonight, but nor could she focus on her school work. She had to distract herself somehow, so settled on going for a walk. Technically, it was against the rules, but she did have some leverage as a prefect. Besides, she was getting rather good at a simple Invisibility spell she had found in a tiny old book in the library.

* * *

Hermione felt a gentle breeze on the back of her neck as she walked in the grounds on grass which seemed to glow with silver, bathed in the round moon's light. Her wet hair was gathered into a messy bun and she was walking barefoot, marvelling at the sensation of dew and silky grass between her toes. She walked without knowing or caring where she went, content to let her feet guide her and let her mind focus on nothing. The Forbidden Forest was nothing more than a dark mass on her right, and the black waters of the lake glittered as the surface was disturbed by creatures moving beneath it. She turned away from the lake, knowing she would not find peace or solace by its shore – it had always slightly frightened her, a sinister mirror that hid untold things in its murky depths – so she strayed instead towards an unknown area of the grounds.

She had not been walking long before she found herself confronted by an archway made of vines wrapped around a metal frame. Flowers on the vine bloomed in the silver light of the moon, unearthly white hearts bared to the starry heavens. Hermione's curiosity propelled her forward and she ghosted beneath the arch, bare feet making no sound against the cool earth. She found herself in sort of tunnel, made of vines and flowers of the same type that had entwined themselves around the metal of the archway. The pinpricks of light from the starry sky were barely visible through the canopy of leaves and petals, but the tunnel was remarkably light. She walked forward until the walls fell away and she found herself under the clear night sky once again.

The sight that greeted her tired eyes took her breath away. She found herself facing a still, glassy pond that spanned half of the garden before her. The grass beneath her feet gave way to cool stone, which snaked through the plants until it reached the water's edge. Beds of sleeping flowers lined either side of the path, and she could only image what and explosion of colour the garden would be under the smiling gaze of the sun. She followed the path to the edge of the pond, only to discover that it did not end there. Stepping stones hovered inches above the smooth surface of the water, suspended in midair, while small white water lilies floated on the water, each delicate flower cradled by a large green pad. The centre of the flowers was a tiny ball of golden light, which lit the pond enough that Hermione could see here and there the metallic flash as light rebounded from the scales of fish that cut listlessly through the water close to the bed. Hermione stepped gingerly on to the first of the stones, unsure whether her weight would shatter the spell. To her surprise, it held perfectly and was warm to the touch. Hermione stepped from one stone to the other, marvelling at their stability and at the clarity of the pond beneath her, until she found herself in the middle of the pond. Seating herself upon the largest stone, which could easily fit three people, she let her toes skim the water, watching as concentric circles broke the mirror-like surface. The lilies rocked gently on the tide she had created, and their radiant centres danced. She sat in this way for what seemed like an eternity, feeling her newly raw heart healing slowly in the soft moonlight. Then she continued along her path until her feet were once more on firm ground. Her wet footprints glistened in the silver glow of the moon as she followed the winding stone.

Hermione explored every inch of the garden, finding hidden treasures in every corner. She was led through a rose garden, where the rose plants climbed white wooden trellises and fused with one another above her head, and the path beneath her feet melted into sand through which she ran her fingers and marvelled at how soft it was. The path led her to an ancient tree with a heady scent, out of which a love-seat had been carved. Here she sat, breathing in the scent of the tree and watching as the wind laced through the leaves above her head, making them tremble lightly. Continuing on, she passed a small fountain with three tiers. A marble couple danced together under the clear sky, their naked stone bodies lapping up the moonlight. Hermione moved on quickly, finding that watching the man and woman's loving dance brought up emotions she hoped to suppress. She passed beneath the bent boughs of a weeping willow, whose trunk she could well imagine spending summer afternoons reading against. Eventually, and far too soon, Hermione reached the flowery archway through which she had come. She cast one last look at her mysterious haven as it lay serenely in the moonlight, and left it behind her.

Dawn was just staining the night sky pink when she regained her room. More content and at peace with herself than she had felt in a long time, Hermione summoned a soft orb of light, and began to read.


	5. The Baring of a Soul

**Me again. Chapters are definitely getting longer, but Draco is also getting more mood-swingy. Might start looking for a Beta reader.**

**Do share your every thought with me, even if it's only to let me know that you're out there, readers.**

**Enjoy, hopefully.**

* * *

Draco gripped the marble, fearing that if he let go he would collapse on the floor. In some ignored corner of his mind, he registered the pain in his hands in which tiny cuts had opened up. He almost relished the stinging, accepting it as a small part of the punishment he deserved for what he had just done. Draco blanched as he remembered the fury that had boiled in his blood at the girl's meaningless words, rage that had clouded his vision to the point where he had become nothing more than a monster. He deserved much worse pain than the little tears on his hand, left by glass as it splintered under his fist. He heard Hermione's quick breaths gradually slow, and then the rustle of fabric as she pushed herself to her feet. Glass crunched underfoot as she moved about the room, collecting her things but giving his hunched form a wide berth. He didn't blame her for staying as far away from him as possible; he had done something inexcusably grotesque. Though his father's morality was questionable, if he had managed to impart one thing to his son it was that raising a hand to a woman in violence was unforgivable. Draco had watched as his aunt had tortured the very girl he had just attacked, bile rising in his throat and all his muscles tensed as if to spring forward and interpose himself between the mudblood he hated and the aunt he despised. He would have done so when Hermione began to scream, if not for the protective hand his mother had placed on his arm. Instead, he had merely retreated within himself, willing his subconscious to block out the noises and the metallic smell as her blood was shed.

Bellatrix's vile torture of the girl had left him faint-headed, even after she had escaped with the others. And now, he had attacked her too. The one tear that had rolled down her pale cheeks, slipping out from beneath her long, dark lashes had washed away his blind fury, leaving a churning stomach in its place. The door closed behind her, and Draco relinquished his iron grasp on the cold stone of the table. His knees shook and he sank to the floor, trying not to retch. He balled his hands into fists and pressed them to his eyes, trying to force out the memory of his grasp tightening on her tiny, fragile neck, the image of panic rising into her warm brown eyes, the sound of her gasps as she desperately fought for her life. The last thing he read in Hermione's brown eyes was fear at the monster who was eking the life out of her. _Him_.

And then he realised that she was no longer Granger to him but Hermione, as though somehow watching her fight desperately for her life, watching her mask of superiority crack and show weakness had made her real to him. She was no longer the object of his hatred or the target for his hateful social conditioning, she was real. He had felt the pulse that pushed blood through her warm body, felt it slow under his rough fingers and realised just how fragile she was. Sobs built in his throat, bundling together into a huge ball in his throat that would neither be swallowed nor rise to the surface to be shed as hot, cathartic tears. Draco Malfoy had not cried since he lost his family, and this sudden realisation was not enough to loosen the tightness that squeezed his chest. He tried to force the lump that had lodged itself just beneath his Adam's apple to the surface with dry gasps of breath that made his entire body heave, but in vain. There was nothing to do but wait until the emotions that were churning in his stomach, heart and mind were calm enough for him to lock them back away where they belonged. Until then, he allowed the hollow choking noises to fall from his lips, fists still pressed to his eyes to shut out reality for a little while longer.

Eventually, the iron band around his heart loosened enough for Draco to breathe normally once more. He opened his eyes, blinking away the purple splatters that distorted his vision until he was accustomed to light again. He sighed as he took in the damage his own hands had wreaked in the room and set to repairing everything. Some of the coloured glass phials were beyond repair, so delicate had they been that the force of his blow had left nothing of them but tiny shards the size of grains of sand. He made the best of it that he could, disappearing the things he simply couldn't fix just as he locked away the emotions that he couldn't understand. It was all he could do. He gathered up all the things that Hermione had left behind, putting them on the window seat in a neat pile. He didn't think that she'd like that he'd touched her things, again, but he felt that it was a more chivalrous thing to do than just leave them scattered everywhere.

_Oh yeah, because half-strangling her was a chivalrous move on your part._

His jaw tensed slightly, but he had to admit that his subconscious had a point.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he announced to no one in particular, shaking his head and pulling out a clean piece of parchment. Damn his father for his attitude towards women.

_Hermione,_

_I know this is going to mean absolutely nothing to you – in fact, I don't blame you for ripping this up right now. But on the off-chance that you don't obliterate it, this is my apology. I owe you more than this, I know, but I at the moment I have nothing more to give you than this stupid, ridiculous letter. If you're still reading, you're a much better person than I am, and a much better person than I ever gave you credit for. If you aren't, well, it doesn't really matter what I say._

_First of all, I just want you to know that you'll never have to see me again. I'm meeting with McGonagall today, and I'll tell her what I did to you. If for some reason she doesn't immediately expel me, at least you'll have the small comfort that she will definitely allow you to switch potions partners or let you do it on your own._

_I know it's not much of a compensation for some monster attacking you and nearly killing you, but believe me when I say the monster is truly sorry. Those words seem so empty and shallow written on paper, but I mean them. You have to understand that I've been through a lot since the war – it's no excuse, I know, and I'm sure you have too – and I've lost so much in so little time. I'm the last one left of my family: the rest of them are dead or scattered by the Wizengamot with no recollection that I even exist. I don't know if you can understand what that's like, knowing with absolute certainty that your own mother wouldn't recognise you if she passed you on the street, that she doesn't remember the lifetime you've shared together. I know that there's not a single person left in the world who cares whether I live or die. That's not exactly an easy burden to bear, but it's mine to shoulder and I've tried to lead the life I've always lead._

_I hope you know I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did. There are no excuses to make. Nothing can take back the fact that I used violence against a woman, and no amount of apologising or baring my soul to you will absolve me of my actions, but I think I owe you an explanation. You always liked knowing everything, so I'll tell you._

_My mother and father found me inside Hogwarts during the battle - soon after you, Potter and Weasley had saved my life (again) – and we did what Malfoys do best: we ran from our mistakes. I've never been sure how we knew when we did that it was all over but I put it down to the self-preservation skills we've been honing for generations. Some families valued courage, we preferred the ability to run like rats from a doomed ship. Much better for preserving our precious bloodlines, apparently. Anyway, we hadn't made it far when Voldemort died and something weird happened to the Dark Mark. The next thing I know, we were back in Hogwarts being guarded by that half-breed oaf, who went crazy with his wand when I tried to check whether my mother was still alive. They held us prisoner all day while the rest of you celebrated and mourned together, just outside the walls, until the Ministry came for us. We were allowed to remain under house arrest because even the new Minister was as corruptible as the old one, and thankfully Father knew just who to bribe. Otherwise, I can only imagine the cells they would have put us in. Father also knew that they wouldn't show much mercy towards him – he had a long history of slightly shady transactions they would no doubt drag into the light now that it no longer served them to keep quiet about it – but he had hope for the two of us, thinking it unlikely that they would give the Kiss to a woman and a child. He was right in every respect. _

_They gave him the Kiss and made us watch as the Dementors pulled the very essence of his being from his body. My mother was looking, but I don't think she really saw or heard anything. I did, though, every second of it. I knew that it was my fault, that all the blame lay with me. Voldemort had given me one task and I'd failed. He never forgave my family. Sure, he installed himself at our Manor like it was some great honour we should fall on our knees and praise him for bestowing upon us (which Bellatrix did), but it was my father's death ticket and he knew it._

_My mother was sentenced to live out a year, minimum, among Muggles with a totally wiped memory. I don't know where they took her, only that they deposited her in some hospital somewhere and made it look like she'd been in a car crash. I haven't seen her since they took her over a month ago. It doesn't seem like a long time, but she was the only thing I had left. A month with the feeling of being so completely, utterly alone in the world is a long time. As for me, I was ordered back here. I didn't come back out of some deep masochistic desire to inflict my traitorous presence on all of the good people here, but I guess part of the punishment is knowing everyone I pass in the hallway stares at me with open loathing. The notes telling me to 'go die like the rest of the Death Eater scum' started three days in to term. I'm surprised they held off that long, frankly. You, though, looked at me the same way you always had. Only with you had nothing changed. I mean, we still hated each other, sworn enemies and all of that, but at least you didn't accuse me of being a monster, tell me to 'fuck off and die' or tell me I should be fed to the Dementors. Until today. You, the last person left, told me what I've known in my heart for a long time now. You were right, as usual: I do belong in Azkaban._

_I just hope you remember after all of this that I was sorry. I hate myself more than you could ever hate me._

Draco didn't sign his name, thinking that she was probably clever enough to realise that he'd written it. It was unlikely that more than one person had strangled her recently. He folded the letter and put it on top of the pile of books that he had arranged by the window. With one last glance at the afternoon light that pooled on the white parchment, he locked the door behind him and pocketed the delicate golden key.

"Ah, Mr Malfoy, just the person I was looking for." A sharp voice pulled Draco from his dark thoughts, and he looked up to meet Professor McGonagall's piercing eyes, "I trust you have not forgotten our appointment?"

"No, Professor, but I thought it was at 4?"

"It was. It is now six o'clock, Mr Malfoy. No, don't apologise now," she said, motioning at him to be silent before he could dredge up some half-hearted excuse, "but follow me to my office so that we don't waste any more time. Believe me, I am as reluctant to do this as you are, but it must be done."

He did as she asked, and matched her brisk pace as she marched through the corridors.

McGonagall took a seat beneath the painting of Albus Dumbledore who smiled benevolently at Draco as he settled himself in a chair facing the current headmistress, who looked unlikely to smile any time in the future.

"Let us begin, if you will Mr Malfoy. It is now two weeks into the term, and I have not heard anything of particular note from your teachers. It seems you have been applying yourself tolerably well to your NEWTs, and you have not been seen causing trouble. I also heard that you have been paired with Hermione Granger for Potions, and you have been getting along as well as can be expected," Draco could not hide his wince at her words, "which I'm sure the Minister will be pleased to hear. If there's nothing more you wish to add, I think we can officially consider this rather unpleasant meeting over."

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat. _Now or never._

"Actually Professor, there is something. I…erm…attacked Granger earlier today."

McGonagall's eyes widened at the same time as her eyebrows furrowed, giving her a rather owlish look.

"What do you mean, you attacked Miss Granger?"

"Well, we were arguing and she said something about me belonging in Azkaban and I lost control. I'm deeply sorry, and I understand that you'll have to report this to the Minister. I'm fully prepared to accept the consequences of what I've done." The words poured out of his mouth in a barely intelligible torrent but by the time he fell silent, it was clear that McGonagall had made up her mind. He steeled himself for the inevitable. But what she said next surprised him completely

"Thank you for your honesty, Mr Malfoy. You show true character by not only owning up to your actions, but accepting full responsibility for them. The student you used to be would never have done such a thing. I need to talk to Miss Granger, obviously, but until then you may go back to class as usual."

Draco's mouth dropped in inelegant shock, and the corner of McGonagall's thin mouth quirked upwards with slight humour.

"I…thank you…Professor, I…"

"There's no need to thank me just yet, Mr Malfoy. We must first see what Miss Granger has to say. Dare I ask, is there anything else you wish to add?"

"No, Professor, that's all." Draco didn't think now would be a good time to mention the hatred of the entire student body. He'd done enough baring of his soul today to last him a long time.

"In that case, you may go. If you hurry, you should be able to make it to dinner."

"Thank you, Professor." Draco left the room, still slightly reeling at the fact that McGonagall was not kicking him out (for now, at least). Maybe he should try that Gryffindor honesty thing more often – they always had gotten away with everything, after all. As the door swung shut behind him, he heard a distinct chuckle which could only belong to Albus Dumbledore, the man he had tried to murder. He tried not to dwell on _that_ thought to long, concentrating on hurrying to the Great Hall without getting points docked from his house for running in the corridors.

He slowed before he reached the vast double doors, not wanting to appear out of breath in front of the entire school. His impeccable composure was one of the few things he had left from before the war, and without it he would surely make a much easier target. Draco took a slightly twisted pride in the fact that the insults the student body whispered at him seemed to bounce off him with no effect whatsoever. Obviously, once he was safe in the comfort of his own room, it was another matter. Beneath the flawless mask, he was just as vulnerable as any other 18 year old boy (more so, even). Taking a deep breath, a blank look settled firmly across his face, he pushed open the door.

He had trained himself not to notice the whispers or the pointed stares anymore by seeking out a spot away from the other Slytherins on their table as quickly as possible and focusing on that empty spot. He found that if he thought hard enough about it, he could manage to shut himself into a little bubble where nothing really mattered except that one empty spot on the table. Draco found his spot, a little too close to the high table with the professors on it, but it would have to do. _Beggars can't be choosers, _he thought sardonically. He still wasn't entirely used to having no money or to having to resort to using second hand textbooks scribbled all over by ridiculous teenagers more interested in drawing little doodles than in actually learning anything. What's more is that he had had to buy everything himself, not having his mother or father there with him to command some respect. With that respect gone, most of the store assistants had ensured that he paid as extortionate a price as possible for every little piece of rubbish he had to buy. A new wand, for example, had cost him half of the small allowance the Ministry had given him for supplies. The rest had vanished like Leprechaun gold in buying books so quickly that he hadn't even had anything left to buy a new set of robes with. For the first time in his life, Draco was returning to Hogwarts with an old set of robes. And no broomstick either, not that he would even be allowed to try out for the Quidditch team this year. He could only imagine the looks he would get if he had showed up to the pitch for try-outs.

Finally, after what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, he reached the spot he had been focusing on. Once seated, he tried to distract himself by taking a little bit of every dish around him and organising it tastefully on his plate. It wasn't a particularly successful endeavour, however, as the dishes before him were mostly side-dishes of rice and vegetables. The main dish, honey roasted pork, was a little further down the table. It was not far enough that he couldn't smell it, but far enough that he would have to ask the students nearby to pass it to him. And engaging in conversation with anyone was not really advisable for someone in his position. He returned to his plate after one side-long glance at the platter of meat, resigned to his bland meal.

A particularly loud laugh from the Gryffindor table drew his eyes away from his plate momentarily. The girl Weasley was bright red, tears streaming down her face, and her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. The culprit of the loud laugh was sitting opposite her, with her back to Draco. From behind, it looked a lot like Granger, but he had never known Granger to be prone to such embarrassing displays of mirth. It wasn't her laugh anyway – her laugh was much more refined, not this uncontrolled guffaw. The girl's hair was brown and curly, but the curls had been smoothed down into more manageable waves. Granger never took the time this girl had obviously invested in her appearance. Definitely not Granger then. Draco's eyes scanned the length of the Gryffindor table, looking for Granger's face. But she wasn't there. The thought made his stomach roll uncomfortably, and guilt suppressed his appetite. He pushed his plate away and left the Great Hall, trying not to think of reasons she hadn't appeared for dinner that night.

_Maybe she was just tired._

_Oh yeah, she had a really exhausting day, what with her near-death experience and all._

_Well then, maybe she was studying and lost track of time._

_Or maybe she doesn't want to see your face. Ever again._

He knew that this was the most likely explanation, and his heart sank. Thankful that everyone (bar Hermione) was in the Great Hall eating, he allowed the mask to slip from his face. Had anyone happened across Draco Malfoy as he made his way to the dungeons, they would not have recognised him. He looked heart-breakingly human and vulnerable without his usual smirk.

The smirk returned, though, the minute he stepped into the Slytherin common room and realised he was not alone. A bizarre snuffling noise was coming from one of the chairs closest to the fire, directly in his route to his bedroom. Draco gritted his teeth and prepared himself for an attack as he walked by the chair. No harsh words came as he slunk past, only a sharp intake of breath and a cessation of the previous snuffling sounds. Surprised, Draco was unable to prevent himself from turning around to see who had granted him some small mercy from their taunts tonight. His eyes met those of Pansy Parkinson, puffy, red-rimmed and still glistening with fresh tears. She hastily rubbed her eyes and tried to defend her vulnerable position by attacking him.

"What do _you_ want, D-Malfoy?" she spat with as much vehemence as she could muster. Her voice betrayed her, however, as it wobbled slightly and threatened to dissolve into sobs again. He noted her conscious attempt to distance herself from him through the use of his surname, and remembered that she too wanted nothing to do with him. Suddenly, he felt very weary.

"Nothing, Pansy. I was just going to bed, I won't bother you any longer," he replied softly. Merlin, but he was being such a sap today. He should have bit back a comment about how little crying suited her or something, but he simply had no energy left. Being hated took a lot out of you, and the fragile figure curled into the chair had been his girlfriend, once. He couldn't bring himself to be the Malfoy of old, not tonight.

She seemed surprised at his gentleness and he realised with a small pang of guilt that his tone had never been gentle with her, not even when they had…been intimate.

"You can stay, Draco, it's alright," she said after a long pause. She almost smiled at him – he was getting in to dangerous territory.

"I shouldn't, Pansy, I'm sorry." He turned to go, but not before he saw hurt flicker in her eyes. Merlin help him, he was going to do something _nice_ again, wasn't he? "I wish I could, believe me, but dinner's almost over and people will be coming back here soon. I don't want them to treat you the way they treat me just because they see us together," he explained in a voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes widened in understanding and she laughed. One cold, bitter note of sound fell from her lips.

"They already hate me, Draco. I tried to hand their precious Potter over to You-Know-Who -"

"His name was Voldemort, Pansy."

"Voldemort, then. They've never forgiven me for it. The whole school hates me for it, and not even the Slytherines will risk their precious reputations by condescending to talk to me."

"I didn't know, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, how could you have known? We never see each other anymore. Probably for the best, really. It's just that I'm so alone, you know?"

"Believe me, I know," he replied, with such great depth of emotion that she looked at him properly for the first time. The firelight danced across his face, his molten eyes swirling in the shadows.

"Merlin, Draco. You look like shit."

"I feel like shit."

She motioned for him to sit beside her, as they had done of old before the world had come crashing down around them, but he shook his head. "It's better for you if I stay here. They'll forgive you eventually – the other houses are all too _noble_ to hate you eternally – but I highly doubt I'll ever qualify for clemency. Still holding out for a miracle, but until that happens I'd better keep my distance." His mouth lifted in a horrible caricature of a smile, devoid of mirth. She understood him. Thankfully, she had nothing of that Gryffindor urge to sacrifice herself for his sake. He probably would have broken down there and then if she'd told him that she didn't mind enduring the hatred as long as they were together. Not that he necessarily wanted to shack up with Pansy against the world, just that it would have been nice to have _someone_ holding him up once in a while.

"You know, I think this is the first time we've ever really talked since we met. Even when we were going out, there was always something else on your mind that you didn't share with me."

"I'm sorry, Pansy, I really am." _Sorry_, again, the empty words that were bandied about so often. But he meant it, this time. He had so many things to be sorry for, so many mistakes he had made that he was going to have to atone for sooner or later. If he could only make Pansy believe that he regretted the way he had treated her for so long, maybe he could lift some of the weight crushing his heart.

She waved his comment away, but he persisted. "I mean it, Pans. All those years where I just took you for granted, used you as some sort of means to an end, strung you along knowing full well that I didn't return your feelings but not letting you move on either. It never felt right when we were together, but you were the embodiment of the girl I believed I should be with. I held on to you, but I never held you close. I'm sorry."

It wasn't exactly what he wanted to say, but it was hard to find the perfect words. He hoped she would understand the sentiment behind them. She had been a friend to him throughout, and he had never really appreciated her.

Before she could reply, he heard tell-tale voices approaching the common room door, signalling the return of the Slytherins from dinner. He made a swift exit, almost running up the stairs to his room before they realised he had had the audacity to linger in the common room.

More out of habit than actual fear, he checked the security wards he had placed on his room. No disturbance. Good, that meant that they had finally learnt their lesson. The day he had received his first threat had taught him that he now needed to secure his room with more than a key. He had walked into his room after a long day, only to find that it was in a state of complete chaos. One of the posts of his bed had been severed in half, dangerously long splinters of wood scattered about the room as though someone had used a particularly violent _reducto_ spell on it. The green hangings were shredded and mauled, lying in a tattered pile on the floor, while his mattress had been savagely slashed and was bleeding feathers. His personal belongings, few of them as there were, had been equally as thoroughly destroyed; the textbooks that had been stacked on his shelf had been thrown about the room, and large chunks of pages sprinkled on top of the debris like icing sugar on a cake. Someone had been very creative and used a semi-permanent spell which made writing look like blood to scrawl "Wish you were here, Love Voldy" across one of his walls. Since that rather unpleasant surprise, Draco had been careful enough to cast protective wards around his room. Anyone who attempted to force their way in would be struck with a nasty case of boils in a less-than conspicuous place. For a few days, he had watched with secret pleasure as several burly Slytherins and, oddly enough, a 5th Year Hufflepuff had winced every time they sat down, but soon enough people adapted and became more creative. The most imaginative up to date was definitely the toilet hex, where an invisible hand had grabbed his…sensitive area while he was peeing and refused to let go. He was stuck that way for a good while, much to the delight of any male visitor to the urinals, and would probably have become a tourist attraction had Moaning Myrtle not told him how to undo the spell.

Draco flopped down on his bed, not even bothering to remove his robes. He checked the golden dragon clock on his bedside table. Only eight o'clock. He looked longingly at the small blue phial of Dreamless Sleep next to the clock. If he took it now, he'd only have until two until it wore off, so slight were the doses he could afford to swallow. He could feel his eyelids itching to drop and shut out the world, and decided to risk it. The purple liquid pooled on his tongue as he carefully let three drops fall to his lips. He was asleep before the sugary taste had disappeared from his mouth, curled on one side, his white-gold hair falling on his serene face.

* * *

As predicted, Draco had woken at two that morning, ripped out of his gentle sleep by the appearance of the nightmares he tried so hard to avoid. The charmed windows reflected a cloudless night sky with a huge moon that reached silvery fingers into his room, beckoning him closer. Night was the only time Draco felt less alone than he usually did. It was a time when everyone was sleeping, whirled away into the fantastical realms of their dreams, a time where everyone suddenly became equals. There was no hatred nor love at night, only the light of the moon who smiled down on everyone with no distinctions. The night was a time for peace and for forgetting the past, and there was nothing Draco wanted more. He sat on the windowsill staring out at nothing, and let the moonlight hold him.

The change in the night sky was so gradual that he barely noticed it as by degree the sky was stained with pink and orange. Before he knew it, the morning sun had banished the moon and the birds had awoken. Draco sighed and hopped down from the windowsill with slight discomfort as his posterior had gone numb. He was still wearing his robes from the previous day and begun reflexively walking towards his wardrobe to lay out a fresh set, before realising with a jolt that he only had the ones he was wearing. It seemed he still hadn't accustomed himself to the idea that he was not the filthily rich Malfoy he used to be. He ran a hand through his hair (which was getting too long, not that he could afford to visit his customary barber – the Ministry hadn't thought to provide him with any money for the school term) and decided that he needed a shower to shake off the strange mood he'd been in all day yesterday.

The shower over, Draco wiped away the condensation that had fogged up the little mirror above the sink and took a long hard look at the boy who stared back at him. _Man_, he corrected himself. Stubble was pushing its way through his ordinarily smooth skin, a slightly darker blonde than his hair. He decided against shaving, foregoing his usual grooming rituals in favour of simply drying his hair. One lock fell naturally on his forehead, while the rest of the blond waves sat in a tousled mass that was a far cry from his usual severe slick-back. It would do. He glanced at his torso, noting with something not far from pleasure that he had not lost his toned, muscular shape from years of Quidditch. He hadn't exactly had much change to fly his broom while under house arrest, but he had kept himself fit enough given the constraints he was under. He could be fitter, though. As it was a Saturday and he had no lessons until after lunch, he decided that he would go for a run in the grounds. He would have preferred to go flying, but he was pretty sure that the Professors would think he was trying to escape and call the Ministry on him. Besides, he didn't have a broom and he didn't much feel like borrowing one of the ancient models in the Hogwarts broom cupboard.

He slipped on a plain white t-shirt and a pair of shorts, deciding against the heavy Hogwarts training robes in emerald green which were more likely to draw attention to him. It was still early, barely 7 o'clock by the time he made it outside, which meant that few people were awake and fewer were wandering around the school. He began a slow jog towards the lake, gathering speed as he neared the black glassy waters. He pulled a small Muggle contraption from his pocket, pushed the earphones into his ears and let the music wash over him. The music player was one of the things Muggles had done well that Wizards hadn't done at all. That and the music that they played. He could never stand the warbling of plump middle-aged witches (all the Wizarding world had to offer, music-wise). He turned the music up until he could no longer hear his footfalls on the dry earth of the path that wound around the contours of the huge lake. He was in mid-air when he suddenly found himself unable to move a single muscle. He was still able to feel it, though, when said muscles hit the floor. The headphones flew out of his ears as he made contact with the ground.

"Sorry," his aggressor said, in a familiar voice, "you couldn't hear me; I figured this was the only way to get you to stop." The _Petrificus Totalus_ released his muscles and he sprang to his feet, brushing the dirt from his white t-shirt, ready for a fight. The fight went out of him as he took in the sight before him.

Granger stood, wand at the ready, steadfastly avoiding his eyes and staring instead at a patch of grass a little to the right of his feet.

"I guess I had the volume up a little too loud," he said apologetically, holding up the music player. She hid her curiosity quickly, but not quickly enough that he couldn't see that he intrigued her. Draco Malfoy, self-proclaimed Muggle hater, was listening to Muggle music on a Muggle contraption. What a puzzle he must be to her. She made no mention of the music player, but cut directly to her reason for catching him mid-step. Other than revenge, obviously.

"McGonagall wants to see us both about something. Before you start accusing me of not being able to keep my big Mudblood mouth shut, I didn't tell her and I don't know who did, okay?" Her tone was defensive in the extreme, but then he supposed she had every right to be a little prickly around him.

"I know who told her – I did. She said she was going to talk to you about it, I didn't realise that involved me too."

"You told her?" Hermione's eyes lifted from the patch of grass to stare intently at his face in disbelief. "Why?"

He shrugged. "I thought I'd try out that Gryffindor _honesty is the best policy _shit. Turns out, it works pretty damn well." He hated how callous and indifferent his voice sounded in his ears.

"Oh." After a long pause and more scrutiny of the patch of grass by his feet, it was little more than a sigh.

"We'd better get going. It wouldn't do to keep McGonagall waiting," he said. Her silence made him almost as uncomfortable as her refusal to look at him. She was so subdued, it was unnatural. She nodded and turned on her heel, heading back to the castle. Draco followed at a respectful distance, not wanting to force his presence on her. He knew that this was probably far worse for her, having to walk so close to the man who had so recently choked her with nothing but anger in his heart, so he tried to make it as easy for her as possible by walking slowly several paces behind her. Try as he might, though, he couldn't help but notice the shape of her legs in her drainpipe navy blue jeans. Damn his teenage hormones, but she had a nice figure. Pansy had been pretty, but she didn't exactly cut an hourglass figure. Hermione, on the other hand…

Draco rolled his eyes. _Of all the moments to start noticing Granger's arse_.

The walk to McGonagall's office was a new form of slow torture for Draco, who had to wrench his straying eyes back to a safe spot in the distance every few minutes. It was as though they had a mind of their own – they kept returning to Hermione's back, drinking in every detail despite Draco's best efforts. Thankfully, McGonagall motioned them both to sit in chairs side-by-side, so he had an excuse to stare straight ahead.

"Mr Malfoy, you know why you are here, of course. Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy told me yesterday that he 'attacked' you. Would you tell me in your own words what happened, please?" McGonagall began in a clinically polite tone, as though she were asking Hermione whether she took sugar in her tea.

Hermione was silent for an unnervingly long time, but Draco resisted the urge to look at her, slightly frightened of what he might see.

"It was my fault, Professor. I told him that he belonged in Azkaban," she said, with barely a waver in her voice. Draco was outraged – that was no excuse for his behaviour.

"That's not true, Professor. Well, technically it is true that she said the Azkaban thing, but it was _not_ her fault. I shouldn't have reacted in the way I did: there's no excuse for it," he cut it. He could actually feel Hermione's glare.

"It was a perfectly justified reaction, Professor. I said a monstrous thing, the blame is entirely mine,"

"It bloody well isn't," Draco retorted, whipping round angrily to return the glare tenfold. _Why was she doing this? He didn't need her to lie for him, stupid self-sacrificing Gryffindor_.

"Language, Mr Malfoy. I think it best you both calm down now, before more things are said that neither of you truly mean. As I understand it, Miss Granger provoked a reaction from you, Mr Malfoy, and you reacted more violently than she had anticipated. It seems clear to me that both of you are to blame, which is the same as saying that neither of you are to blame. Neither of you will be punished this time," Draco opened his mouth to protest, to demand that he be punished for what he'd done, but she waved him into silence, "but if I hear of any such incident again, I will not be so lenient. You may both go."

"But Professor –"

"Mr Malfoy, I said the matter was over. Let us try to confine it to the past and move on."

With those words, they were dismissed less than ceremoniously from the Headmistress' office. He rounded on her the minute their feet touched the stone floor beside the ugly statue who guarded her office.

"What _the fuck_ was that, Granger?"

"What was what, Malfoy?"

"You know exactly what. Why the hell did you lie back there? Why didn't you tell her about the letter, that I started it, that I nearly killed you?"

"Because the letter wasn't important, because you started it, because I'm alive. Why did you so adamantly try to get her to believe the worst of you?"

"It wasn't the worst of me, it was the bloody truth! I don't need you to save me, I deserve to be punished for what I did!" He was shouting now. The two of them were probably drawing curious stares from the students passing by, but he was beyond caring.

"What about what I did?"

"I nearly killed you and you think you should be punished just as much for saying something we both know is true?"

"It's not true, Malfoy," she said, suddenly quiet. Damn, he'd said too much.

"Whatever. Look, next time you get the urge to be all self-sacrificing and heroic, just don't. Okay?" She'd reached out a hand as if to hold him and comfort him, but he turned away and walked as fast as his legs would carry him in the opposite direction.

When he was a safe distance away, he slowed to a stop and leant against the cold wall breathing quickly. His heart was racing, and he wasn't entirely sure he could blame its elevated rate on the brisk walk. The cold seeped through his thin t-shirt, sending a wave of goosebumps up his arms and calming him slightly. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.


	6. An Exchange of Letters

**Gaaaah, sorry it's been a bit of a while since my last update. I've got my first exam on Monday, though, and revision is starting to take priority. **

**It's also a shorter chapter than the last, which is a bit of a shame because I was doing so well with lengthening them, but I didn't want to write loads just for the sake of boosting my word count. Quality over quantity is what I was going for (let's just hope that I managed at least one of those).**

**Don't make me beg for reviews, readers, because I _will_ do it. By which I mean, I love hearing from you and any review simply makes my day. Exam season would go much better if I got some reviews. Jokes, classic guilt trip.**

**Anyway, enough ridiculous rambling from me. Sorry it's so short.**

* * *

Almost a week had passed since Hermione had seen Malfoy last. Technically speaking, she'd seen him all week – it became impossible _not_ to notice him once she'd actively tried to avoid him – but a week since they'd last been in close proximity to one another. Slughorn had allowed them both to go their separate ways that week since they could do nothing until the moon was at its fullest point, and Hermione hadn't been all that keen to persuade Slughorn to let them do extra work. Besides, she had plenty of other work to keep her busy: she was taking several extra subjects, after all. However, tonight was the full moon and she was starting to really need the books she had left behind in the lab when she'd left in an understandable hurry. There was really no avoiding it any longer; she'd have to speak with Malfoy again.

For all her dawdling, Hermione arrived outside the little wooden door that Friday afternoon well ahead of Malfoy. There was no sign of him and she had neglected to take the key on her way out last time, so she was forced to wait outside. _So much for not looking too eager to see him_, she thought sarcastically, sitting herself on the floor with her head resting lightly against the wooden door. It's true, she hadn't wanted to seem too keen to see him after their previous encounter (she had every right to be angry at him, after all), but as usual she was left looking like the eager little school girl. She couldn't help but feel uncomfortably dependent on Malfoy as the seconds ran into the minutes – if only Slughorn had given them a key each, she could already be inside and preparing the damn potion on her own. Although the floor beneath her was cold, the chill soon seeped through her robes and numbed her skin so that she could no longer feel it. On the contrary, she began to feel rather warm and sleepy. Last night had been a rough one, with a longer nightmare than usual and thus a longer period of retching. She had been so weak that she was unable to muster up the energy to walk to the garden she now fondly thought of as _hers_, and so she had not been able to find peace that night. Today, she felt like a walking coma patient, abnormally slow to respond to questions posed to the class (but still generally faster than her classmates) and unable or unwilling to maintain a conversation, even with Ginny. Little wonder, then, that her eyelids began to droop. She blinked rapidly, trying to prop them up with sheer willpower, but to no avail. Malfoy still a no-show, she slipped into sleep.

At first, her sleep was dreamless, but slowly the blackness of her unconscious mind began to take shape. Colour stained the darkness until she stood once again in the spare bedroom of the Weasley house. She was confined to the corner, watching herself sitting on the bed. This time Dream Hermione was reading, worrying her lower lip as she focused on the pages before her eyes. Present Hermione couldn't even remember the title of the book she had been reading that day, the memory of its contents pushed to some unknowable corner of her brain and replaced by something much, much worse. The doorknob rattled violently, signalling Ron's attempt to enter. Dream Hermione looked up, panic already rising in her eyes, but did not move a muscle. Her eyes returned to her page, the picture of nonchalance but Real Hermione did not need to have lived it to see that she was no longer taking in a single word, merely trying to block out the sounds of the struggle outside. Ron, finally remembering that he was a wizard, blasted the door open making both Hermiones whimper and cower. His face was terrible sight: blank anger, detached and violent in equal measure. Dream Hermione had looked up despite herself when the door had burst open, and now smiled sweetly from the bed. She closed the book and placed it on the nightstand, unable to suppress the tremor of fear that shook her hand. Ron was too _elsewhere_ to notice anything. He began to move closer, each step a leaden weight upon Hermione's heart. Dream Hermione tried to scramble away but she was backed into the corner, Ron blocking all hope of exit by the door. The window was her only way out of the room, but her wand was in the back hanging off the handle of the wardrobe. If she jumped, she would have nothing to soften her fall. Three storeys of flying, and then she would hit the ground. Ron's hand reached out to grab her, and both Hermiones tensed against the grip that would leave bruises in the morning. But instead of a rough grasp around her arm, Hermione felt a soft hand gently touch her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she met the molten silvery eyes of Draco Malfoy.

She tried to leap away, forgetting that she was sitting on the ground, and propelled herself backwards. Her head hit the door painfully hard at the same time as her bottom slid out from underneath her, so that she ended up half-lying at his feet. Not a position she was overly pleased to be in. Nor did he seem particularly ecstatic that she had reacted in such a dramatic way to his touch. His eyes cooled and he stared imperiously down at her.

"What the hell was that?" she asked him, still struggling to separate dream from reality.

"I could ask you the same thing, Granger," he replied. "You were napping, again, and we had work to do so I didn't want to waste any time waiting for you to finish your beauty sleep. Which, by the way, didn't work."

It was a typical insult from him, but it stung more than it should have. She was obviously still affected by the dream. Thankfully, he'd woken her when he did, or he'd be dealing with a lot more than a beached Hermione at his feet. Vomiting in front of Malfoy was not a pastime Hermione was particularly keen to explore. She scrambled to her feet less than gracefully while he watched with an amused smirk. Having straightened herself out at last, she turned to him.

"Well, what are you waiting for then?" she asked impatiently. He rolled his eyes and slotted the tiny golden key into the lock with a moment's hesitation.

"It didn't work when I tried it on Monday," he explained, correctly interpreting her quizzical look.

She barely restrained the sigh. "Slughorn told us that it had been charmed to only work with the both of us present, remember? Honestly, if you didn't spend so much time on your hair in lessons, you might actually hear important things." Speaking of his hair, it was looking very nice today. She'd never much cared for the slicked-back look he'd adopted to date, but the way he let it fall in slight waves softened his angular features and made him look less of a stuck-up prick than usual. That said, his hairstyle didn't change his personality whatsoever. He might _look_ like less of an obnoxious git, but he most definitely still was one.

She pushed past him into the room to begin collecting her much-missed things. The room was surprisingly spotless and she worried that the house elves had simply thrown her things in the vast Lost Property (in which case she'd never find them), until she spotted them arranged in a neat pile on the window sill. Making a beeline for it, she was drawn up short by a piece of parchment resting on the top of the pile addressed to her. That had most definitely not been there when she'd left. Malfoy stopped inches behind her, bumping into her slightly as he was propelled by his momentum. He reached for the strange piece of parchment at the same time as she did, but she had the advantage of being closer whereas he had to crane around her. She snatched it up and was about to open it when he spoke.

"No! Please don't…" he implored her, in a desperate tone she was sure she'd never heard him use before.

"It's addressed to me, not you, so I think I can do what with it. Then again, my name on a letter has never stopped you before," she bit back, reminded that he still had the letter from Ron somewhere on him.

"Granger, please, just give it to me."

"No way, Malfoy. In fact, here's an idea: why don't you just fuck right off and mind your own business?"

"It is my business," he returned quietly.

"I don't see how it is, frankly."

"I wrote it."

"Oh." Lost for words, she merely stared at him for a few long minutes. Then the questions began filling her mind and pouring out of her mouth. "When? Why? And why can't I open it? Wh-"

"Granger, would you just shut up and give it back to me?" This situation was all too familiar to the both of them, and Hermione remembered with a sickening feeling how the last confrontation of this kind had turned out. That said, she was unable to give it up without a fight just because he told her too. Suddenly, she was struck with an idea.

"Alright, I will," she began and he immediately held out his hand for the letter. "_But_ not until you give me my letter back," she finished with a triumphant smirk worthy of Malfoy himself. She could see him considering refusing, but the decision to agree did not take long. _He must really want this letter back_, she thought, which only increased her desire to know what was in it.

"I don't have yours on me, so just give me that one and I'll return the other one to you when I next see you."

"Yeah right. As if I would ever trust a Slytherin, let alone you, to uphold that kind of bargain. You don't get this back until I get mine back."

"Fine, I'll come and find you after dinner today."

"Good luck finding me; I'm visiting Hagrid until curfew."

"Well what do you suggest then, Granger? Since you always seem to have an answer for everything," he snapped. She was pushing his temper a little too much. Of course, she did have the perfect solution but she had been planning to bait him a little further. It was probably best just to cut to the chase though.

"The Hogsmeade weekend is tomorrow, so I was thinking you could give it to me then so I can get on with my life as soon as possible." It clearly pained him to admit that it was a good plan, but eventually it was all settled. The Three Broomsticks at 11 o'clock sharp.

"Now that that's arranged, do you think we could possibly get on with brewing the potion?" she said, slipping the letter into her robes so that he wouldn't be tempted to take it while her back was turned. The rest of the session was spent in an almost-comfortable silence. It seemed that while both of them kept their mouths shut, they could work in harmony and something bordering on companionship. Hermione missed Harry, but after years of partnering up with him it was refreshing and pleasant not to have to tell Malfoy exactly what to do, scold him for doing it completely wrong and end up doing it herself anyway. He was, dare she say it, very competent. They worked so easily and so quickly through everything they had to prepare that they were done with half an hour to spare. They put the ingredients into the crystal cauldron and set a timer spell so that the mixture would be heated at the correct time without either of them having to spend a sleepless night watching over it. _Not that my night won't be sleepless anyway,_ she thought ruefully. Everything in order, they gathered their things and parted as the little wooden door closed behind them.

The minute she left the lab, her fingers itched to open the letter. She had not managed to distract herself completely from the thought of what it could contain, despite her attempts to keep herself busy. She had even caught herself wondering whether it could be a declaration of love, but immediately chided herself for being so conceited and plain ridiculous. As if she and Malfoy could ever harbour any emotions towards one another but hatred. When the sound of his footfalls had disappeared completely, the desire to look at the letter almost overwhelmed her completely. She held out for as long as possible, practically running to her room and earning herself a few very strange looks from Gryffindors at a loose end in the common room. The door had barely shut behind her when she pulled out the letter and began to read. Her eyes steadily widened as they took in the words before her. She paled slightly as she read "_knowing with absolute certainty that your own mother wouldn't recognise you if she passed you on the street, that she doesn't remember the lifetime you've shared together."_, the memory of her parents staring back at her with blank eyes after a memory charm by her own hand removed every trace of her from their lives flashing into her mind.

By the end of the letter, she found herself sitting on the floor for the second time that day. Each word contained a wealth of heartbreak and raw emotion disguised by the elegant, looping writing of one with distance, self-control. The neat script could not entirely mask the magnitude of the emotion behind the words, just as Malfoy's façade of superiority and cool indifference had cracked before her to reveal the mess of human sentiment in his liquid silver eyes. Malfoy was baring his soul to her, the girl he had hated for such a long time, and she was overwhelmed by a desire to hold him to her and whisper that everything would be okay. She didn't hate him – even if she had, how could she do anything but pity him now? The idea that he truly believed that he belonged in that soul-destroying prison made her ache with a sadness she couldn't dispel.

* * *

Saturday brought with it dark clouds that promised heavy rain. Draco had watched them gathering on the horizon from his enchanted window since 2 o'clock that morning, leaving his post only when his stomach brought to his attention the fact that he needed breakfast. He had once again decided to opt for a more natural look, finding that it was easier to maintain on his low budget (his hair gel had cost him the equivalent of three of his text books and he was beginning to learn that it was a luxury he was going to have to do without). He had nothing planned for his Hogsmeade trip other than the exchange of letters with Hermione so, whereas once he would have made an effort with his clothes to impress Pansy or whoever he deigned to meet, he pulled on a pair of dark blue jeans and a woollen jumper. It wasn't as if Granger was actually going to care what he looked like, after all. He had as hearty a breakfast as he could stomach in order to avoid the temptation of buying sweets or food in Hogsmeade (another luxury he simply could not afford) and made his way to town, behind even the last few stragglers.

For a long time he wandered around town, avoiding the main street where he would be in constant danger of literally bumping in to hostile students as they swarmed in and out of shops. He chose instead to wind through the little side lanes, lost in his own thoughts and not really taking in any of the shop faces he was passing. His mind wandered of its own accord back to yesterday afternoon, when he'd arrived half an hour late to their potions session only to find Hermione asleep on the floor. This time, though, her sleep had been far from peaceful. Just as he'd neared her, she'd whimpered audibly and cowed away. At first, he thought she'd woken up and was truly fearful of his presence after the choking incident, but then he realised that she was still dreaming and reacting to something in her nightmare. The same strand of hair had fallen lightly upon her cheek again, as if to tease him. Unable to resist, he had tucked it behind her ear, brushing her soft skin in the process. It had nearly made him fall over in shock, when her eyelashes had fluttered apart and he'd stared directly into her bared soul. Before he had a chance to react, she had fallen over herself to get away from him with such comical results that it had taken all his self-restraint not to laugh. The moment of light comedic relief did not distract him from the image of her troubled sleep for long, nor the fear or disgust he'd read in her deep brown eyes as they opened to meet his.

He was so consumed by these thoughts that he barely noticed the flowerpot until he'd walked right into it. Disentangling himself from the honeysuckle plant, he glared around angrily to see if anyone could be blamed (or if anyone had seen him make such a fool of himself). No one was around, thankfully, and he edged his way around the plant with more care than was perhaps necessary. He found himself faced with a dead-end: the cobbled street he was on lead directly to a little house entirely covered in creeping ivy, through which a sign was just visible proclaiming the shop to be a 'tea house'. Intrigued despite himself, Draco pushed open the door and stepped inside. His nose was ambushed by a sweet, herby smell and the very air he breathed in seemed to be slightly damp with the steam of the ten or so boiling kettles lined up behind the counter. He closed the door against the cool breeze that tickled the back of his neck, and stepped more fully inside the large room. It was filled with the oddest assortment of furniture, from worn and scruffy armchairs to pristine antique loveseats, and yet it all suited the haphazard air of the place. The light that filtered in through the low windows was lightly tinted with green because of the external veil of ivy, and the rest of the room was lit by various lampshades (none of them matching) inside which dim orbs of light flickered.

Draco, seeing no one around to question him or recognise him, advanced towards one of the bookshelves that teetered slightly under the weight of books. He noted with pleasure that they were not solely Wizarding books, but that the shelves housed an impressive number of Muggle novels too. Picking up a well-thumbed edition of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', Draco found himself an armchair by the fire and began to read. A quiet voice with a distinctly Irish accent interrupted his reading only a few pages in.

"I brought you a tea," the voice said. It belonged, Draco discovered, to a plump young-ish woman with flaming red hair that could rival that of the Weasleys'. She set down a steaming cup on the table before him, and the scent of camomile and other indistinguishable ingredients filled the air.

"I didn't order one," Draco said, in his usual snide tone. Internally, he was panicking – he hadn't brought any money with him, since he had none to bring. How was he going to explain away this situation when he was charged for a tea he hadn't ordered?

"I know, you just looked like you could use one. Don't worry, it's on the house," she said cheerfully. Draco waited, expecting her to leave and let him return to his book and the unexpected gift of tea but she didn't move, clearly waiting for something. He repressed a sigh of irritation, and took a sip of the tea to please her. Immediately, he began to feel the knots in his shoulders loosening, his entire body filling with a deep sense of peace.

"What is this stuff?" he asked in genuine wonder.

"It doesn't have a name, but it's my infusion of Peace. I thought it might help."

"How did you know?"

"Most people find this place when they aren't looking for it, but most need me. And the seat people choose gives me a huge indicator. You picked a big, old one right by the fire, which suggests that you need comfort. The fact that it's big and turned almost completely away from the door and counter suggests that you're hiding from something. Besides, one look at your face and it's pretty obvious that you're not sleeping and that something nasty is eating you up from the inside out."

She could read him like a book – was his carefully maintained façade that transparent, or was she one of the very rare telepaths?

"Are you, you know, a telepath?" he asked, wincing at how stupid the words felt in his mouth.

"No, love, no," she laughed, "just a very good guesser. I'm not even a witch, by your definition of the word."

If nothing in the conversation had shocked him so far, this certainly did.

"What? But then how…" he trailed off into silence, gesturing at the orbs of light and the self-boiling kettles.

"Oh, I have magic of a sort. I just don't need a wand to channel it. It's really quite complicated, and you've got a good book so I won't be bothering you any longer. Enjoy the tea, love," she said, waving away his perplexed look with a smile and bouncing off to disappear into an adjoining room.

He took her at her word and thoroughly enjoyed the cup of tea. It was everything he had needed, far more efficient that his phial of Dreamless Sleep for quelling the emotions that constantly gnawed at his heart. The crackling of the fire as it devoured another log, the warmth of the tea as it spread through his entire body, the smell of old books mingling with herbs – this was the closest to normal he had felt in a long time. Much too soon, though, the clock on the mantelpiece struck half past ten. He sighed and put away his book, not wanting to be late for Hermione again.

"Bye, and thanks for the tea," he said to the empty room, unwilling to raise his voice as though embarrassed by his polite words, but he had the feeling that the strange woman had heard him anyway.

He opened the door, only to be greeted by the sight of rain pelting down so ferociously that it seemed to bounce back upwards again. He was too relaxed to care overmuch about the weather conditions so let the water stain his hair a dark blond with something akin to a smile on his face. Hermione, by the time he reached her, was most definitely not smiling. He was only five minutes late to their appointment, as it had taken him longer than expected to navigate his way back to the main street while still trying to avoid the majority of the student body, but she was already fuming. Her anger was made somewhat less effective by her appearance, though. It appeared that she had left all of her clothing behind: she was wearing a cream shirt and a black skirt. The rain had left her shirt entirely transparent and it was clinging to her skin in a distracting fashion. Draco could see that he was not the only one barely able to tear his eyes away from her skin – her condition was earning her far too many appreciative looks.

"Nice of you to show up," she grunted in his general direction as he seated himself on the bar stool beside her.

"Nice of you to dress for the occasion," he returned, pointedly letting his eyes roam her body. She blushed and glared at him.

"Shut up. I told you 11 o'clock sharp. Should have realised you'd be too busy thinking about your appearance to listen." She was clearly rattled by something.

"I believe it's called being _fashionably _late. Not that you'd know anything about fashion." He was beginning to enjoy himself immensely.

"I thought you liked this outfit?" she said, pouting in mock-sadness.

"Oh, believe me I do. So do most other males here."

"I know, four of them have already sent drinks over," she said, blushing again. Clearly she wasn't used to being centre of attention.

"Good, that means you won't be expecting me to buy you a drink."

"I wasn't expecting that anyway. Don't go getting any ideas – this isn't a date, Malfoy. I'm here for one thing only."

"So am I," he said suggestively, letting a lewd smile play across his lips.

"Pfft, in your dreams. Give me the letter, please," she replied, rolling her eyes.

He pulled the letter out from his back pocket, finding that it was unfortunately rather crumpled and soggy. It would probably be illegible by now but, knowing Granger, she'd still want it back out of principle. Briefly, he wondered where Granger was hiding his letter, as there weren't all that many hiding places in her outfit. He was slightly disappointed when she took it out of a perfectly banal bag. Typically, the letter she had been safeguarding still appeared to be in mint condition, untouched by rain. It was testament to how little they trusted each other that they exchanged the letter on the count of three so that neither would have the opportunity to cheat the other. Once each letter was safely returned to its owner, Hermione stood up to leave. Draco felt a surging desire to detain her, realising that their little exchange was the only thing he had had to look forward to that day, but couldn't muster up the courage to speak out. She left with a lingering backwards glance, as if daring him to give her a reason not to go, but he held his tongue.

"You going to order anything, or are you just here for the scenery?" a rough voice asked. He shook his head, and took that as his cue to leave. He didn't much feel up to staying in Hogsmeade, now that he had nothing left to do, so he made his way back to the castle alone.


	7. The Taste of Sunshine Part 1

**Aaargh, I'm sorry it's been so long. Exams have taken up every single second of my life. I'm even dreaming in maths now…**

**Anyway, consider this teeny tiny little splurge more as an extract from Chapter 7 rather than the actual chapter. An epilogue within a chapter, if you will. **

**Dramoine action starts HERE, albeit a little suddenly. More details and angst to follow.**

**Enjoy, and apologies once again for the length.**

* * *

It had been easier than anticipated for Hermione to sneak away from Ginny and her other friends in Hogsmeade, given that it was the 18th of September and they were all not-so-subtly hunting round every store to find her a last-minute birthday present. Although she had spent the best part of her night in the garden trying concocting elaborate excuses, it was probably for the best that she merely had to mutter something about getting a warm drink and head off, since the best of her excuses included something about women's issues. What she probably should have spent more time doing, Hermione thought bitterly as she trod in yet another puddle, is thinking about the weather. It had rained, lightly, while she'd been outside but she'd been impervious to the damp (literally – she had cast a waterproofing spell so that she would not feel the wet). It had therefore not occurred to her to take the dark clouds on the horizon into account while she deliberated over her outfit. And that was another thing: why had she spent so long that morning trying to pick out something to wear? Normally, she just picked up whatever was clean, brushed her hair perfunctorily and that was it. Today, she'd even had problems deciding what _underwear_ to wear, for Merlin's sake. She had managed to tease her curls into something a little more manageable and put a thin line of kohl around her brown eyes, making them stand out.

Before it had started raining, she had been flattered by the appreciative looks a few male Wizards were giving her. It didn't happen to her very often and, although it made her blush, it wasn't entirely an unpleasant feeling. "Meeting someone special?" Ginny had joked, after complimenting her appearance. Hermione had smiled and tapped her nose in a mock-secretive manner, but she was struck by the thought that Ginny was right. She certainly looked as if she were trying to impress Malfoy. The idea nearly made her run back to her room and change, but Ginny had grabbed her arm before she could move and the little group had walked off towards Hogsmeade.

Then, of course, the downpour had begun in earnest and all Hermione's efforts were ruined. The rain was so heavy that before she had had time to cast a waterproofing spell, she was soaked through. Her hair was plastered to her scalp and hung in wet draggles; her shirt was completely transparent and clinging to her skin, revealing her slightly adventurous choice of bra; her modest line of eye-makeup had run to the point where it had given her a smoky-eyed look. _At least now you don't have to worry about impressing Malfoy_, she thought sardonically, looking down at herself. Making her excuses to her friends, she had made her way slowly to their agreed meeting place, not wanting to be first. Once again, though, there had been no sign of Malfoy. She had settled herself on a barstool close to the entrance and waited, trying to ignore the leers of most of the males in the building. One boy in the year below, clearly on a date, stared long and hard until he cried out in pain as his date kicked him on the shin. Hermione had felt like a piece of meat on display in front of a pack of dogs. It wasn't the first time she had felt this way, and she was still having nightmares about what had happened last time. A drink had been set down before her by the bartender, something smelling sickly sweet, with a dangerous undertone of firewhiskey.

"From them over there," the bartender said gruffly, pointy a stocky finger at two middle-aged men who caught her eye and winked. She nearly gagged and pushed the drink away quickly, not wanting to give them any reason to come over. By the time Malfoy arrived (somehow managing to look good despite being as soaked as she was), she had had a neat little collection of free drinks. Needless to say, she hadn't exactly been happy.

Now, though, she almost wished she had stayed a little longer, or at least had the sense to go back and find her friends instead of wandering off through the countryside towards Hogwarts alone. She had been too wrapped up in her thoughts to notice the men following her until she had left Hogsmeade, thinking that it was surely just a coincidence that they were going in the same direction. When she turned off the main road and headed along the footpath that lead only to Hogwarts and they still followed, she began to worry. Trying not to let her worry show, Hermione sped up, making a show of checking her watch so that they would not realise that she was trying to run from them. Their pace increased too. She couldn't run from them – there were three of them, each at least a head taller than her. She would be overpowered the minute she tried to pull out her wand and hex them, although her reflexes were probably better. She had no choice but to pray that someone would come along. The path, which up until now had been across open fields, was heading towards a small copse. She had not more than five minutes left in the open and she knew that once she was obscured from sight in the trees, they would attack. Hermione increased her pace again, knowing that it was bringing her to the trees faster, but hoping beyond hope that it would be enough to give her a head start.

"Hermione!" Her head whipped round, searching for the source of the cheerful voice. Who on earth could possibly be joyfully calling her name while she was being doggedly followed by three aggressive men? Her eyes found Malfoy, waving at her from a side-path that led back into Hogsmeade. She ran towards him, conscious that the men behind her had slowed their pace noticeably. He opened his arms and met her with a hug.

"Where've you been, love? I've got everyone looking all over for you," he said, loud enough for the men to hear. She didn't trust her voice to reply, merely burying her head in his neck and whispering _Thank you thank you thank you thank you_ against his warm skin. His arms, still circled around her body, tightened as he pulled her closer.

"Can you walk?" he whispered in her ear. She barely nodded, but it was enough. Malfoy half-carried her along the path towards the woods. Risking a peek over his shoulder, she saw to her relief that the men were heading along the path he had just come from back to Hogsmeade. The relief knocked what was left of her legs out from her, and she would have collapsed had it not been for Malfoy's protective arms. He supported her limp form with his left hand, while a patch of grass with his right. When it was dry enough, he lowered her to the ground and sat by her. Hermione's head dropped onto his shoulder and she slipped her arms around his torso, anchoring herself through his warm body. Her entire frame was shaking, wracked with the terrible thoughts of what might have happened.

It was a long time before she could bring herself to extract her face from the crook of his neck. Each deep breath she had taken had been stained with his smell: an intoxicating scent of lemon, wet rain and something definable only as _Draco_. Eventually, though, she raised her eyes to meet his and opened her mouth to thank him for what he'd done for her. Before she could utter a word, she felt his lips on hers. It wasn't really a kiss, more of a questioning caress. She answered fervently, lifting her hands to thread them through his damp blond hair and locking his mouth on hers. He stiffened with understandable surprise, obviously not expecting her to respond with such enthusiasm to his moment of folly, but he relaxed almost immediately and pulled her closer to him until their two bodies felt as though they had been moulded into one. The tip of his tongue touched her lower lip for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to unlock her lips. His smell was all around her, filling her lungs and her brain with its heady odour, and suddenly she was tasting him too. It was such a perfect fusion of senses – a dance of touch, scent and taste – that she was reluctant to break it for air. Eventually, though, he pulled back and she was able to fully take in his expression. His hair was tousled by her own fingers, his lips were parted and his eyes were a swirling silver that she was more than willing to drown in. Where had these feelings come from? A wonderful fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach when his eyes met hers, a hunger in the core of her being that flared when he touched her…

"Hermione?"

"Mmm…" she said, unable to tear her eyes away from his lips when he spoke.

"Hermione, look at me."

"I am," came the very satisfied reply. It wasn't enough for Malfoy, though, and he lifted her chin gently with his hand to force her to look into his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. The words were choked, full of sincerity. Hermione's poor, abused brain didn't follow.

"For what?"

"For… taking advantage of you after…" Hermione was beginning to get slightly annoyed. Too much talking with those lips of his, not enough kissing. She leaned closer and traced a finger along his lower lip, gently shushing him and noting with pleasure that his eyes fluttered close in something nigh on ecstasy when she touched him. He wrenched his eyes open with considerable effort and pushed himself away from her a little bit. Without his body heat, she was so very cold. "Hermione, I don't feel right doing this to you so soon after… Those men, they were going to... What are we doing?"

She shrugged and tried to pull herself closer to him again, but he resisted.

"You're not thinking properly, Granger."

The use of her second name hurt more than it should have – she'd suddenly discovered that she loved to hear her first name on his tongue, to see the way his lips formed the syllables. That, and the accusation that she wasn't thinking (she was _always_ thinking), irritated her. True, she had been dazed when he had first bent down and kissed her, but the weak feeling in her knees no longer had anything to do with her recent close encounter. For some reason, this all felt so very _right._ The way their bodies responded to the slightest stimulus; the way the crook in his neck was just the perfect shape for her head to rest in; the way there had been nothing but his arms when she had most needed them around her, anchoring her to reality. Yes, she had hated Malfoy with all her heart, but this wasn't Malfoy. This was Draco, an individual as vulnerable as herself and infinitely more alone. Although she had never unburdened her heavy mind to anyone, she was still secure in the fact that she had friends and family around her. He was completely and utterly friendless, alone in a sea of people who made it no secret that they loathed him and everything he had once stood for. Since his hands had wrapped around her neck, she had stopped hating him. She had feared that he would not stop, but she had not feared him. The letter had finally made him so real, so human to her – they had, without realising it, shared so many experiences that empathising with him came completely naturally. It was as though they were two lonely halves of the same whole. Desiring him was both a new and old feeling. New in that it had risen to the surface the minute he had folded her into his arms, old in that she had a feeling that some tiny part of her had always been pulled towards him. She never could resist a challenge, and Draco certainly was _challenging_.

"I'm not some weak little princess, you know. I'm fine, and I have thought about it." Although the thinking hadn't exactly been particularly detailed, she knew that she wanted this. "So stop being an annoying git, shut up and kiss me, Malfoy." He smiled, recognising the old Hermione in her grumpy tone of voice, and complied immediately. _Much better_, she thought contentedly as he hoisted her into his lap in one fluid movement, while never breaking the contact of his lips on hers. She opened her eyes to take in his face discreetly, only to find that he had had the same thought. They stared deeply into each other's eyes, searching for something that neither of them could name. Whatever it was, they found it. Something shifted in Draco's eyes and the last of the storm clouds that seemed to permanently haunt them ebbed out. The brightness was so dazzling that Hermione had to fight back a ridiculous urge to blink, as one would when looking at the sun. She broke the kiss, lifting a finger to delicately trace the soft skin on his cheekbone, never looking away from his blazing eyes. She let her finger drop to his lips, marvelling as they parted infinitesimally and the tip of his tongue darted out to meet the whorls in the skin of her inquiring fingertip. Hermione applied the tiniest bit of pressure to his lips, knowing that he would immediately understand. He did as she asked and lent backwards, flattening the tall grass around him. She now found herself in a somewhat compromising position, one that she had not expected to ever be in again. Her experience with Ron was always in her mind, but this was so very different. Ron had been cold, distanced from her even as they were most intimate. Draco responded to her every touch and she to his. She'd never felt this deep current of energy flowing through her core before, and it was a feeling she wasn't averse to. That said, she doubted she'd be up to anything more than kissing, for a while at least. With this in mind, she rolled off of him and settled herself by his side. She snuggled her head into his chest, he held her close and they both watched the wind dancing in the grass.

_So this is what _happy_ feels like_, Draco thought to himself as his thumb made gentle circles on Hermione's back.

He didn't know how long they lay there together, but eventually, as all things must, it came to an end in the form of a particularly violent shiver on his part. The ground was still very wet, despite his best one-handed efforts to siphon some of the water off, and the chill had reached his bones. He hoped she wouldn't notice so that the moment wouldn't shatter and leave them stranded in reality again, but she was far too observant by half and she sat up immediately. He tried to pull her back down, but she resisted.

"Draco, you're cold." Merlin, how he loved to hear her say his name. It was ridiculous that such a trivial thing should make his heart flip lightly in his chest, but flip it did. He shook his head in mock petulance, trying to tug her back down to his level again. "It's getting late," she continued, smiling gently.

"Please," he half-whispered. He didn't want to go back. The minute they left the haven of their grassy alcove, things would return to the way they were before. She would come to her senses and remember that she hated him, and he would be alone again. But how could he go back to surviving in the dark as he had before, having now tasted the sun?

"What if they're all looking for us?" she said. Damn her and her logical approach to life. He propped himself up with a sigh, earning him a half-apologetic look. "We should get going soon."

"What are we going back to?" he asked softly, dreading the answer.

"I don't know," she sighed, sounding suddenly weary. His heart plummeted. "I don't know what this is. But it's something, and I wouldn't mind if it stayed that way." She was blushing now, and avoiding his eye as though she had said something embarrassing. He had to physically restrain himself by hugging his knees to prevent himself from grabbing her then and there and kissing her until she was red for all sorts of different reasons. Instead, he settled for a glowing smile. He stood up and pulled her to her feet, and then they began making their way back to the castle hand in hand.


	8. The Taste of Sunshine Part 2

**So this is much longer than the previous one (which, admittedly, isn't saying much), but that's why it's taken longer to write. Hope you guys like it, but I don't have high hopes for it because I'm not the best at writing those steamy scenes. Oh, did I mention there's a steamy scene? ;)**

**Also, huge thanks to those of you who've taken the time to review and favourite this story – it really means a lot to me. Kermit, you've been great with all your advice and encouragement. So thanks again, guys, it makes me really happy.**

**Enjoy, hopefully. Ta for reading and putting up with the slow updates.**

* * *

The pair slowed to a stop as the woods they were walking in began to thin out and the path widened, leading up to the school gates. A branch snapped somewhere to their left, and Draco felt Hermione squeeze his hand nervously. He sighed and resigned himself to the idea that some point in the next few seconds, he would have to let go of her hand. He'd almost forgotten he was holding it: it felt more like a perfectly natural extension of his own limb that it was a bit of a struggle to remember that it was all too easily detachable.

By the time Draco could pick out the school crest on the gate, their pace had ground to a halt. He turned to look at her, her warm fingers still entwined with his.

"So… How do you want to do this?" he asked, tentatively. She looked down at their joined hands, deep in thought and seemingly unlikely to reply in the near future. "Do you want to keep it between us?" The minute he said it, her head whipped up and her eyes met his. He saw pain flash across her face, but it was almost immediately replaced by anger. She wrenched her hand out of his, looking disgusted. _Retrospectively, probably not the right thing to say_, he thought.

"Oh what, so you can just have me whenever you want me and no one will have to know how you abase yourself and touch a filthy little mud-"

"Hermione, don't," he interrupted before she could say the words he had so often hissed at her. "I want to be with you, I do. And I know that it seems incomprehensible to you that I might actually want people to know about this, given how I've behaved towards you since the day we met, but believe me I'd kiss you openly in every public space in the school if I could. It's just that –"

"It's just that what? What possible way could you explain away the fact that you don't want people to know about this?"

"They'll hate you, they'll ostracise you, they'll hex and threaten you and I can't just sit by, watching it happen and knowing that it's all because of me. You gravely underestimate just how much people hate me here, Hermione, and not even the fact that you're one of the Golden Trio, or whatever it is they're calling you, will save you once they find out. I don't want you to ever have to go through that sort of treatment," he said, his face and voice full of heart-breaking honesty and concern. Just as quickly as it had come, the anger drained from her eyes, and she stood on tiptoe to place a chaste kiss on his lips.

"What was that for?" he asked in pleased surprise. Her mood-swings were truly crazy today, but at least it kept him on his toes.

"That was for being adorable. I didn't know you could be cute, I thought you only had one mode – annoying git. Guess I was-" She stopped herself before the word actually came out of her mouth. Draco picked up on the hesitation, and quickly understood what she had been about to say. An amused smile played across his lips.

"You were what, Hermione?" he asked, sweetly. If he could have batted his eyelashes at her without looking like a complete tool, he would have done so.

"Did you just flutter your eyelashes at me?" she asked incredulously, fighting down the laughter. Damn it, the urge had just been too great to resist.

"Don't change the subject – I believe you were about to say something…"

"Fine. I was _wrong_, okay? Jeez, no need to laugh about it," she pouted, clearly still choking over the word that was so foreign to her vocabulary.

"I'm sorry. Such a momentous occasion, I'm trying to remember it forever," he wheezed between gasps of laughter. She rolled her eyes, and before he could even blink he found himself with his back against a tree and her lips against his once more. This kiss was much longer than the previous one, and much less chaste. It was enough to make his head spin.

"What was _that_ for?" he panted, his voice low with ill-masked desire. Her body had been so close to his that all sorts of warm, feminine parts had made contact with his body. He wanted nothing more than to bridge the gap between them in a single step and continue where she'd rather rudely left off.

"That was to shut you up," she retorted, looking rather pleased with herself, "and it worked pretty damn well. I'll have to remember that one next time."

"Oh, please do," he grinned. His face muscles were starting to hurt from all this insane smiling he was doing.

"So anyway, back to that other thing. We're keeping this a secret, fine. But how is it going to work, logistically?"

"Logistics? You can turn anything into a study session, can't you? That said, I have no idea. We obviously can't skip around holding hands all day, but we can't go back to avoiding each other either. We're going to have to meet halfway," he said, thoughtfully.

"Meet halfway… Oh! Of course, that makes everything much simpler… Only we can access it, so no interruptions… Not very comfortable, but…"

"Hermione? Will you use sentences, please?"

"The lab, the potions lab."

"You're suggesting we meet in the potions lab to have this illicit relationship? I'm not sure Slughorn will be pleased if we carry on in such a fashion in front of the whole class…"

"Not that lab, idiot, _our_ lab. The one only we have the key for? The one that's actually charmed against anyone else trying to get in?"

"Oh," was all he could muster up as a reply. It was pretty ideal, he had to admit. Not exactly comfortable, but that could be taken care of quite easily. The more he considered it, the more he decided that (as usual) Hermione was right – it really was the only place they could truly be together without having to constantly worry about people uncovering their secret. "You really are very clever, Hermione," he said, with a note of awe in his voice.

"So I'm told," she replied drily, but her smile was radiant. He realised with a slight pang that it might just have been the first nice thing he'd directly said to her. All that was going to change now, though, he vowed to himself. "A few more things: we'd better head back separately, in the interest of keeping this secret – you know how people can fabricate an intricate story out of the smallest details – and I think we should probably wait until the next potions session to meet, just in case. Anything I've missed?" Draco shook his head. "Guess I'll see you on Monday, then," she said, turning to leave.

Instinctively, he grabbed her hand before she could fully turn her back on him. _One more taste of sunshine to keep me going_. Both of his hands moved up to lace themselves behind her neck and he pulled her closer to him. He let his lips gently trace hers, memorising their shape and taste before he gave in and deepened the kiss. He pulled her closer to him and once again their two bodies blended together to form one inseparable being. She responded to his every touch, matching his passion and satiating his need. A whimper of pleasure escaped her parted lips as his mouth left hers and travelled down her neck, planting soft kisses on her extremely receptive skin. He skimmed along her collarbone and back up her neck, finding her mouth once again. Another deep kiss and he pulled back at last, leaving Hermione gasping and blushing.

"What was that for?" she breathed, looking at him from beneath half-closed lids. It took every ounce of self-restraint that he possessed not to give in to the screamings of his body and kiss her again.

"That was goodbye," he whispered, his voice hoarse with his building desire.

_Monday_, she mouthed at him, before turning and disappearing through the gates. Monday would not come soon enough. In the meantime, he desperately needed a cold shower. Draco waited at least ten minutes, long enough for his racing heart to slow, before emerging from the trees and making his way up through the grounds.

The rest of Saturday seemed to crawl by. Draco had confined himself to his room to some work but his mind kept wandering back to the morning's events. It seemed impossible that they had gone from antagonising each other to kissing each other in such a short space of time. He began to question his own sanity, wondering whether it was really possible that Hermione Granger had lain in his arms. And yet, it couldn't be a dream – her smell still lingered on his clothes, which he was loathe to take off even to have his much needed shower, proof that it really had happened.

He wondered how he had managed to find the courage to kiss her. Maybe it was because she had been folded close to his body, her hot breath tickling his neck as she tried to calm herself down; maybe it was her sheer vulnerability, her frailty which he had felt firsthand and had allowed him to realise that she was not only a human, but a very pretty girl; or maybe it was that unlooked for tea that had coursed through his veins, giving him enough internal peace to believe in serendipity and enough mental clarity to finally see that kissing Hermione was something that he had wanted to do for a long time.

Draco remembered the first time he saw her, running through the train with that imbecile, Longbottom, looking for his frog. Already, her hair was messy and curls fell on to her face, making her eyes seem even larger. They had sparkled with barely-contained excitement at all the wonderful things she saw. She had popped her head into his carriage, which contained all of his future Slytherin cronies (as though somehow they'd managed to recognise the Slytherin traits in one another), and asked breathlessly whether anyone had seen a frog. He'd smiled, actually smiled, at her flushed cheeks and bright eyes, before he caught himself and remembered that the chances were that she was far below him. Hermione had caught the smile and returned it, blushing deeper.

"Have you seen a frog anywhere?" she had asked, directing her question at Draco like he was the only one in the carriage. It had given him a very pleasant feeling in his chest, which was quickly marred by Goyle's reply.

"Mnya mnya mnay na mnya mnyanana?" he mimicked, chortling at his own supposed wit. Draco shot him a glare and rolled his eyes at his new companion's utter stupidity. Hermione had looked hurt for an instant, but shaken it off and left quickly. The whole train journey Draco's mind had been completely invaded by thoughts of the girl and her smile, and by the time his feet hit the platform in Scotland he had decided that he could live with being seen talking to her, even if she were a half-blood.

As the first years pooled into the entrance hall, he had distinctly heard her enraptured voice, practically quoting from 'Hogwarts: A History". His father would be sure to look a little more leniently on what was probably going to be a slightly degrading friendship if he knew she was intelligent. He began elbowing his way past various weedy first years, closing the distance between them. He was about to tap her on the shoulder and introduce himself when he heard her say:

"My parents are both dentists." He didn't need to know what a _dentist _was to know that it was a muggle trait. She was a muggle-born. Draco's heart sank and his face became stony. She could be the brightest witch of her age, and still his father would never allow them to be seen speaking to one another. Bitterly disappointed, Draco shoved past her and made towards a shock of red hair that was distinctly Weasley in order to vent some of his anger.

From that day onwards, he had forbidden himself to talk to her, brushing her off with a snide comment the first time she approached him. But even then, he knew that it would be hard for him to ignore her completely. His heart was sufficiently hardened by his less than gentle upbringing to know that he could never approach her in the way that he had once longed to do. So he began to go out of his way to make her life a misery, resenting the fact that her very presence was a continual reminder that he could never have her. He called her ugly and bucktoothed when he wanted nothing more than to tell her how lovely she looked, and when she had hit him in third year, a small part of him had relished the contact of her skin on his. As the years progressed, he had managed to bury his feelings for her behind a wall of blind hatred, seeing her as nothing more than the sum of her lineage. She was a mudblood, barely human, as he had so often had to actively remind himself.

And now, there was nothing to stop him – the years of social conditioning had fallen away like a discarded veil and he could openly want her. His heart soared with joy again, remembering that he could kiss her whenever he wanted to. It was a feeling akin to flying for the first time.

* * *

Draco slept better than usual that night, managing to stave off the nightmares with dreams of Hermione for several hours after his Dreamless Sleep dose had worn off. Consequently, he made his way down to breakfast feeling better rested than he had felt in several months. He left his dormitories early that morning and was one of the first into the hall for breakfast. He positioned himself on his table with a clear view of the as-yet Hermione-less Gryffindor table and waited. By the time she did walk in, radiant as ever, his cereals had gone completely soggy and he had given up all pretence of eating. His whole world seemed to be hanging in the balance, waiting for her to catch his eye and smile. Several long moments passed while Hermione and her friends made their way to their table. Draco was beginning to give up hope of ever being noticed when she lifted her eyes and caught him staring at her. A slow smile spread across her lips and her eyes shone with excitement, as breathtakingly beautiful as the day he had first seen her.

Nothing else seemed to exist but the two of them as they communicated wordlessly across the hall, until three owls rather unceremoniously dropped packages in front of Hermione, breaking the connection and pulling them back to reality. Draco continued to watch her curiously as she unwrapped the brightly coloured packages, pulling out a lumpy woollen jumper in a curious shade of cream, a box of assorted Weasley Wheezes and a little leather-bound book. When she saw the last, she let out a squeak of happiness so loud that it reached Draco's eager ears. A little cake with eighteen candles appeared on her plate, courtesy of the Hogwarts' House Elves, and she flushed prettily when her friends began singing to her. With the appearance of the cake and candles, things clicked into place for Draco. Merlin! It was her birthday, and he hadn't known.

He watched as she blew the candles out, meeting his gaze from under her lashes as the last little flame dissolved into a tiny column of smoke with another small smile full of meaning. That last smile firmed Draco's resolve – he would make this her best birthday ever. Truth be told, he had never celebrated anyone's birthday other than his mother's and father's before, and had absolutely no idea how people usually went about this. And getting her a present posed yet another problem: how was he going to find a gift by the end of today that effectively said everything he felt about her and, more importantly, how was he going to pay for it? He had a grand total of 5 galleons upstairs in his room, and that sum was supposed to last him until the end of the year. Not nearly enough to buy her a suitable gift. Merlin how he hated being poor.

He stood up abruptly, lost in thought, and strode out of the now noisy hall to escape to the silence of his room and think. He didn't notice the concerned look in Hermione's eyes as they followed him out of the room.

_Think, Draco, think_, he muttered to himself as he practically ran back to his dormitory. Briefly, he considered asking Pansy what to he should do. She was a girl after all, and was probably the only girl he could envisage asking, but that would involve explaining his situation to her. He wasn't sure he could do that just yet, and besides, it would only make him feel guilty that he had never bothered to do more for her birthdays than lazily condescend to wish her a happy birthday then help himself to her cake. So Pansy was out of the question for now. There was no student he could really borrow money from, as there was no one who was actually on speaking terms with him and he didn't really want anyone to know about his financial troubles. That ruled out the rest of the student body.

But maybe he could borrow money from a teacher? One that already knew about his _situation_ regarding money… Only McGonagall knew the full details of his sentence. She was effectively his only hope. Before his pride could forbid him from asking, he doubled back on himself and headed for her office. With every step towards her door, he found himself doubting his actions. She would be unlikely to lend him the amount of money he needed for such a trivial thing, wouldn't she? And even if she did lend it to him, there was no way he could pay it back on his Ministry allowance even if he lived in a cardboard box for the next few years. It was, however slim, his only chance so he steeled himself and knocked on the door.

"Mr Malfoy, what can I do for you? I believe our next meeting is not for another month or so," McGonagall said, waving at him to be seated.

"Actually, Professor, I was wondering whether you might be able to… lend me some money?" It came out as a slightly choked question, as the words stuck in his throat. She quirked an eyebrow, unable to hide her surprise.

"I was aware that the Ministry had withheld some of your funds, Mr Malfoy, but I had been informed that you were provided with an amount per annum. I am not really in a position to be lending students money when they cannot manage their finances wisely. In future, perhaps refrain from spending your allowance in Hogsmeade." Draco's heart sank, but he had come so far that he wasn't prepared to leave without at least giving it a proper go.

"The Ministry gave me 20 galleons, which was to cover my lodging over the summer as well as my school supplies. As it is, I have 5 galleons left which I have saved for emergencies. I haven't spent any money in Hogsmeade, Professor, having no money to spend." He tried to sound as respectful as possible, but it was hard to entirely mask his frustration.

"Be that as it may, Mr Malfoy, you have still not told me _why_ you desire a loan from me. For all I know, it could be to buy an object of dark magic, given your past exploits."

This last remark stung, and struck Draco as unusually harsh. Even his Headmistress was judging him for his past mistakes.

"It's not for me, Professor. Well, it is, but it's for a gift. I want to buy my…girlfriend a present because it's her birthday, but 10 galleons won't get me very far. I know that it must seem like a ridiculous reason to ask to borrow money, but I need to buy her something that's worthy of her."

"I'm sure Miss Parkinson will not be too disappointed if you simply explain the situation to her," McGonagall said in a slightly awkward tone, but her face was much softer as she looked at him.

"It's not Miss Parkinson, Minerva," said a voice. Draco jumped and looked around for the source of the voice. He found it in the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore, who was beaming down at Draco with a twinkle in his painted eye. McGonagall looked surprised too, but more at the fact that the girl Draco had been referring to was not Pansy Parkinson than the interruption.

"I see. Well, Albus, what would you suggest?" she said after a pause.

"I think, perhaps, that Draco should be given the money he desires. Consider it less of a loan and more of a gesture of good faith – proof that we believe that a man is better than the sum of his mistakes. Besides, it will be put to very unselfish use, I'm sure."

McGonagall looked convinced almost immediately.

"How much were you planning to ask me for, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco coughed nervously. "100 galleons, Professor." She barely bat an eyelid, but reached into a draw and removed a purse.

"100 galleons is no small amount of money, Mr Malfoy. When you next come for our meetings, we will arrange a method of repayment that will be beneficial to both of us. In the meantime, put it to good use. You may go." And with that, Draco was dismissed. He had forgotten how comforting the dull weight and sprightly chinking of gold felt in his pocket.

Once the door of his room was safely shut again, he located a small leather poach that he had hidden in his desk. He threw a pinch of its contents onto the fire and noted with satisfaction as the flames turned emerald green. He knelt down at the hearth, murmured "Lavalliere's" into the flames and lowered his face into the fire. He closed his eyes, allowing to cool flames to lick his skin, and when he opened them again he found himself eye to eye with a middle-aged man sporting a handlebar moustache.

"Bonjour, Monsieur, que puis-je faire pour vous?"

"I would like to speak to Ravell, please."

"Of course, Monsieur, right away," the man said in a heavy French accent before disappearing from the view of the fireplace. Moments later, an older man with utterly white hair crouched down before the fireplace.

"Master Malfoy, what a pleasant surprise!" he said, with genuine pleasure. _He should be pleased_, Draco thought, _we were once one of his best customers_. "What can I do for you today? Is your mother desirous of another pair of earrings? We have some beautiful sapphires that only she could do justice to –"

"Actually, Ravell, it's not for my mother today. It's my… girlfriend's 18th birthday." Draco was so unused to saying that word that his tongue tripped over it every time. Ravell's face lit up, however, and he scurried off before Draco could say another word. He returned minutes later, arms laden with velvet boxes.

"I have a few items that would be _perfect_," he said, the excitement plain in his voice. "But first, tell me, what does she look like this woman of yours?"

"Erm…. She has brown hair?" Draco said lamely.

"More, more. I need as much detail as you can give me."

"Okay. Well, she has brown hair – it's usually messy, but when she takes care of it, it falls in ringlets all the way down her back. It's brown, but when it catches the sun it seems to burn. It goes red and gold and bronze all at the same time. She has creamy skin, soft as fine satin, which offsets her huge brown eyes. They're the first thing you see when you look at her, the dark brown eyes. You can feel like you can see her entire soul when you look into them and they're so deep that it's impossible to resurface. She's the most intelligent person I've ever met, and her wit is caustic but in a way that makes you want to laugh at yourself just to laugh with her. When she's annoyed at you, it's the most devastating feeling in the world. When she smiles at you, it's the most wonderful…" He trailed off, realising he'd probably gone a little _too _detailed.

"She sounds beautiful, Master Malfoy," the kindly old jeweller said.

"She is," he breathed in reply.

"Let's start with the basics. Brown hair and brown eyes, so not this," he began tossing boxes over his shoulder, "or this. Cream skin, you say, so this wouldn't go. Curly hair, so this would look ridiculous. Bronze tints – this might work with that. Intelligent, so she'd hate this, too stupid by half… Aha! I've got it!" he squeaked, sweeping away the rest of the boxes until he was left with only three before him. He opened the first and spun it round so Draco could see it more clearly. It contained a large necklace with a complicated design of interweaving gemstones. It was showy, something Pansy would probably once have killed her own mother to wear, and something that Hermione would never even touch. Draco shook his head. Ravell shut the box and tossed it behind him as if it contained a rotten banana rather than hundreds of galleons' worth of gems.

Ravell opened the second box and turned it to face Draco. Inside was a dragonfly hairpin with thin crystal wings and a diamond body. Draco reached out to touch it, and it came alive, fluttering delicately in a way that made the light dance around it. It was certainly lovely, but Draco wasn't sure that Hermione, who never really took many pains with her hair, would wear it that often. Again, Draco shook his head, and again Ravell tossed it over his shoulder without a second glance.

Ravell opened the final velvet box and gazed at it for a while, long enough to build anticipation in Draco's chest. Ravell turned the box around slowly, to reveal its contents. Inside, nestled on a velvet cushion was a necklace that looked as though it had been designed specifically for Hermione. White gold strands delicately weaved together to form a complex pattern, from which hung a small pendant. Draco looked closer, to discover that it was a perfectly formed ruby rose, with white gold detail, that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one wrought of gold on the key to their lab. The instant he saw the necklace, he knew he had to have it. Lost in his contemplation of the necklace, he barely realised that Ravell was speaking.

"…say she is intelligent, so she will no doubt immediately recognise the ancient Celtic design. Few know this, but this particular pattern signifies a promised love. The way these two strands cross over here means protection from evil, this tetrapoint here denotes eternity and the whole thing put together means love. It's one of three Celtic pieces we have here, the last remnants of the forgotten age of the Irish mages. It supposedly has great power, and frankly it's quite pretty too," the old jeweller finished with a smile.

"I'll take it," Draco said. Ravell nodded and snapped the box shut.

"Would you prefer a different box, or will the red velvet do?"

"Red velvet will be fine, Ravell."

"Very good, sir. The asking price is 200 galleons-" Ravell broke of at Draco's unintentional hiss as he sucked air in through his teeth. "But since we are so fortunate to have your regular good patronage, I'm sure I can give it to you for much less. Shall we say 150 galleons, Master Malfoy?"

"I'm not sure Mother would particularly like me spending that amount of money on a woman other than herself." Draco tried to speak lightly, but his heart was sinking as the possibility of giving Hermione the perfect necklace seemed to slowly vanish.

"What would you suggest, sir?"

"I'd say 100 galleons is a fair price, wouldn't you Ravell?"

Ravell almost choked. "But this is the only necklace of its kind! This sort of ancient jewellery is almost impossible to find!"

"I will give you no more than 105 galleons for it," said Draco, throwing in the last of his money. This would leave him utterly penniless, but it was worth it. Ravell looked to be about to indignantly disagree, when Draco continued. "Mother will be disappointed the have to look elsewhere for her jewellery, what with her 40th birthday coming up so soon," he added as a dreamy afterthought.

Ravell winced, internally calculating how much money he would lose by denying Draco this necklace. Obviously, he seemed to think it would be a substantial amount. "105 galleons then, Master Malfoy." Draco handed over the money, and received the red velvet box in exchange.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Ravell," he said, unable to stop the satisfied smirk from spreading across his features. Old habits die hard, after all.

"Pleasure as always, Master Malfoy," Ravell replied in a tone far from pleased. Malfoy wrenched his head from the fireplace, clutching the little red box in his hand, before Ravell could think of throwing something at his vanishing head.

Now for the rest of her present. Draco had some small idea what he was going to do, but it would require going to see Professor Flitwick. Unwilling to leave the necklace in his room, just in case someone figured out how to counter the protective charms he had cast, he slipped it into the inside pocked of his cloak and hurried off to see the little Charms professor.

* * *

Hermione was sitting in the library, having escaped from her friends under the pretence of doing some work. In reality, she just needed a break from their well-meaning happiness. They kept trying to make her birthday a big deal, but all she wanted was another quiet day. She had actually slept last night, until two in the morning when Draco's face had suddenly morphed into Ron's and the nightmarish memories had begun again. By the time she'd managed to untangle herself from the dream long enough to flush the last of her half-digested dinner down the toilet, it had been too late to think of heading to her secret garden for peace. Ginny had bounded into her room several hours later brandishing a card and a shoddily wrapped basket of toiletries including, Hermione noted, something called 'Miranda's Miracle Mess Manager' which she assumed was supposed to have some effect on her hair. She'd thanked Ginny and they'd chatted for a while before heading down to breakfast with the other Gryffindors. Even Neville had brought her a present: a tiny lilypad with a light in the centre that he had placed in a jar. Hermione recognised the plant as a dwarf version of the ones she saw every night in her garden and was overjoyed. She'd hugged him tight, and he'd walked into the Great Hall blushing scarlet.

She was smiling at the memory when a piece of parchment hit her forehead. It landed in front of her in the form of an origami dragon, tiny paper wings still flapping. She looked around for the person responsible, but there was no one near her except a Ravenclaw third year who was snoring lightly on a mound of Transfiguration homework. Curiosity overwhelmed her and she unfolded the paper to reveal a brief note scrawled in Draco's unmistakable graceful hand.

It merely said: _We need to talk. Meet me at the lab tonight at 8._

Panic jolted through her, causing her heart to leap into her throat. The note could only mean one thing – he'd finally been brought back to his senses, and remembered that he hated her Mudblood guts. That was probably why he had stormed out of the Hall that morning, after staring at her strangely while she blew out the candles on her birthday cake. She kicked herself for having believed that he had changed, that she was somehow attractive to him. Worst of all, though, she berated herself for having wasted her birthday wish on him. She tried to stop the tears that stung her eyes, realising that she'd cried far too much over boys recently, but no matter how much her brain told her it was stupid to be so affected, her heart was clenching painfully in her chest. She gathered her things, swallowing desperately to dislodge the lump in her throat, and ran from the library.

Hermione shut the bathroom door behind her and collapsed against it. She had headed straight for the only place she knew that no one would find her – Myrtle's bathroom. Unfortunately, she had temporarily forgotten why no living girl would ever find her in her hiding place.

"Oooooh, you're back. Did you bring Harry with you? I haven't seen him in _such_ a long time…" Myrtle said shrilly, floating out of her U-bend. "Oh, you're crying. It's not like you've actually got anything to cry about, you're not _dead_!" she shrieked bitterly. Hermione almost wished she was, and then rolled her tear-stained eyes at her own melodrama.

"I'm so pathetic," she said to no one in particular, though Myrtle was hovering nearby looking vaguely intrigued. "Crying over a bloody boy. Again. And a self-important git at that…"

"Boys are horrid. They all come in and laugh at poor Myrtle and her stupid glasses. Except that lovely blond one - he came in for a nice cry a few years ago. He didn't make fun of me or tell me to go away, he just talked to me."

Hermione realised who Myrtle meant by the 'lovely blond one' and another spasm of pain shot through her heart.

"He's not a lovely person, he's a pig like the rest of them. He used me for some sick, hateful game he was playing and now he's going to hold it over me forever. Draco's no better than any of them," she said between sobs. Myrtle, angry at being contradicted, disappeared back into her U-bend with a scream.

"I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him," Hermione whispered to herself, over and over again. But every time she said it, she knew that she was lying to herself. She couldn't hate him, despite the years she had tried to persuade herself otherwise. The first time she'd ever seen him, he'd given her such a radiant smile that it had been all she could do to keep her mind from returning unbidden to the boy with blond hair. She'd busied herself on the train, throwing herself more fully into the hunt for Neville's frog, but all the while she kept thinking about him. Who he was, predominantly, but she also longed to find out all the little things about him like, for example, when he'd first realised that he was a wizard, what his parents did... Even when he'd elbowed past her as the first years waited expectantly before the imposing doors of the Great Hall to be sorted, only to make his way to Ron and Harry and taunt them, she'd still only seen him as the boy who'd smiled. When the insults had first started, she'd tried to brush them off. They'd hurt more than they should have, but she couldn't hate him. Eventually, as she made friends with Harry and Ron and their animosity had properly begun, she'd pushed the image of the boy she'd met on the train far down into an obscure part of her heart and begun to see him as someone she ought to hate. For a long time, he'd become some_thing_ rather than some_one_, until recently when she'd looked beneath his stony mask and caught the smallest glimpse of the boy who's brilliant smile had driven her 11 year-old heart wild. And now he was going to distance himself from her again.

Realising that the sky was darkening, a purple hue spreading from the dark line of the Forbidden Forest towards the castle, she dried her eyes and headed towards her room to get ready. She was going to show him what he was missing. Little did she know that as the bathroom door slammed shut behind her, a cubicle door opened and pale, puffy-eyed Pansy Parkinson began applying makeup to her tear-streaked cheeks.

* * *

Hermione arrived at five minutes past 8 to find Draco already standing before the door. _Bloody typical that he's early for this_, she thought bitterly. She noted with pleasure that his eyes widened as he took her in. She had put Ginny's birthday present to good use, managing to tame the wild mess she called hair into waves that fell to the small of her back. From the back of her wardrobe, she had pulled out a pair of skinny black jeans that she had avoided wearing until now because it required a lot of squirming to get into them. She was wearing heels, nothing extravagantly huge, but enough to bring her to Draco's height. She was wearing a white, tight fitting shirt that laced up at the front, and she had left the top unlaced enough that the round of her cleavage showed. Her outfit left most things to the imagination, but it had the effect of exciting the imagination to a frenzy judging by the look on Draco's face.

"You. Look. Amazing," he said in a low, breathless voice as though the sight of her had stolen the oxygen from his lungs.

_Cut the bullshit_, she wanted to scream at him, but she satisfied herself with a glare and jerked her head towards to door, ordering him wordlessly to open it. He looked hurt and she repressed the bitter laugh that bubbled in her throat. He was hurt because she didn't want to stand around and listen to any more of the crap he was spewing? Well, let him be hurt.

He did as she asked, with a moment's hesitation, and the door swung open. It was Hermione's turn to have her breath stolen. The ceiling was hung with a net of tiny lights that cast an ethereal glow over the rest of the room, which no longer resembled the potions lab. The large central table was gone, as was everything else. Instead of the table, there was a large blanket and picnic basket, like an island that floated in a sea of red rose petals. The walls seemed to fall away and melt into one large window which gave them a panoramic view of the grounds and made Hermione feel as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice. She barely registered Draco's movements, entranced by the sight before her eyes, so she started when his voice came from right by her ear.

"Is it too much? I've never done this sort of thing before… I just didn't know how to say it right. Happy Birthday, Hermione."

He had done all of this? For her? No one had ever done anything more romantic in her entire lifetime. And she had badmouthed him, convinced herself she hated him and that he was no better than a pig when really he was planning the sweetest, most amazing surprise for her. He wasn't going to break up with her! The happiness coursed through her veins and she whipped round and hugged him with all her might. He staggered backwards under the force of her affection, but righted himself and returned the hug.

"I thought you were going to break up with me," she admitted once they had disentangled themselves from one another. He laughed, as though it were the most ridiculous idea he'd ever heard.

"I've waited so long to be able to have you, not even a hoard of crazy Hippogriffs could drag me from you now." Hermione giggled, remembering his run-in with Buckbeak. It seemed like centuries ago. "Shall we?" he asked in mock-pompousness, offering her his arm.

"With pleasure," she replied with a smile, allowing herself to be seated on the blanket. "So how did you do all of this?"

"Trust you to be more interested in the technicalities that being bowled away by a huge romantic gesture," he grinned, as he pulled out dish after dish of delicacies from the picnic basket.

"Shut up," she said, slapping him playfully on the arm.

"I expected no less from my know-it-all. I went to Flitwick, to ask him to alter the charm on our key so I could get in here alone. He agreed, after a lot of skilled lying on my part, but I think McGonagall must have told him that I was planning something for you –"

"Wait, McGonagall knows about us?"

"Kind of. Well, Dumbledore – or rather, Dumbledore's painting – figured it out, and he must have told her. I guess we're the subject of the staff gossip or something, because Flitwick turned to me conspiratorially as I was leaving and told me that this room functioned along the lines of the Room of Requirement and should I need to make any _changes_ (you should have heard the way he said that word), I need only ask the room nicely. And here we are."

"What did you ask the room for?"

"I asked for a place to have dinner with my girlfriend, and this is what it gave me." Hermione started at his casual use of the word 'girlfriend', and he noticed. "Sorry, I shouldn't have used that word. I know that our situation isn't exactly a normal one, and it's not like I even asked you…"

"Shut up," she said again. Without thinking, she pulled him towards her until they were almost nose to nose. She paused for a moment, drinking in his smell, and then kissed him tenderly. Their passion escalated until it was all she could do to prevent herself from jumping him then and there. His carefully prepared dishes were knocked to the side as she lay down, pulling him down with her. Eventually, when they surfaced for air with dishevelled hair and lips flushed red, he grinned again.

"If that's what you do when I call you my girlfriend, how are you going to react when I give you this?" He pulled her into a sitting position, then extracted a velvet box from the picnic hamper. "Happy birthday, love," he whispered in her ear, seating himself behind her with her between his legs and watching over her shoulder as she opened his gift.

Hermione's smile froze in place when she saw what the box contained. It was beautiful, the most wonderful piece of jewellery she'd ever seen and she itched to try it on, but she forced herself to snap the box shut again.

"What's the matter?" he said over her shoulder, his voice resonating through her collarbone in a pleasant manner. "Don't you like it?" The hurt was evident in his voice. She turned her head and planted a reassuring kiss on his cheek.

"I love it. It's just too much. It must have cost you a fortune –"

"If you love it, I don't see what the problem is. The price is not important as long as you like it."

"I do, Draco, I really do." She opened the box again, desperate to take another look. The interweaving stands of white gold seemed to dance in the candlelight, resembling the patterns the wind had made in the long grass where they had first kissed each other. And dangling from the delicate criss-crossing pattern, rubies shaped into the form of a rose glinted in the light. Draco reached out and freed the necklace from the velvet box, fastening it around her neck gently. His fingers left a trail of goosebumps behind them as they moved across her neck and down her back. Reaching her waist, he turned her to face him so that he could admire the necklace on her skin. She looked down at it herself. It felt so natural, already warm against her skin. When Draco's fingers had let the clasp slip closed at the base of her neck, she was certain that she had felt a rush of warmth spreading across her entire body. The ruby rose rested exactly above her heart, and the way it glittered in the light seemed to mimic the fluttering of her racing heart.

"It's beautiful, Draco," she whispered. He stared at her hungrily, letting his eyes travel from the ruby that was nestled in the gentle curve of her cleavage to her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. She blushed under the intensity of his gaze, but met it with equal emotion.

"_You're _beautiful," he whispered against her skin as he began to pepper it with light kisses that set off a frenzy of butterflies in Hermione's stomach. Her breath was coming in little pants as he reached her neck and she nearly moaned when he nipped her earlobe. _Enough teasing_, she thought, desperate to envelope herself in him once again. She sat fully on his lap, wrapping her legs around him and smiling with pleasure when he moaned softly as she settled herself more comfortably on him. She buried her fingers in his hair, inhaling deeply as his scent once more filled her nose. She looked deep into his silver eyes, noting the burning flecks of gold that stood out from the swirling mass of grey, and then she kissed him harder than she'd ever kissed anyone before. There was nothing left in the universe the instant she closed her eyes than their bodies moving as one. His lips against hers, his tongue flitting into her mouth and setting off a firework display of sensations, his hands caressing every inch of her skin. She pulled him still closer to her with her legs (earning her another moan of pleasure against her mouth) and allowed her hands to slip beneath his t-shirt to feel the smooth skin stretched tight against muscle. Hermione didn't need to open her eyes to know that he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.


	9. An Unwanted Encounter

**Hi guys. Sorry this update has been such a long time coming (I don't even have the excuse of having had exams, since they're all _finally_ finished), but for some reason I really struggled to write this chapter. I don't really like this story anymore, and I think my writing style is actually just getting progressively worse. I'm thinking about stopping soon, because I'm not sure how long I'll manage to have the patience to write it all. It has literally taken me days to write 5000 words of rubbish.**

**Ooh, that was a bit of a downer, sorry. Anyway, here it is, complete with a section from Ron's point of view (because I'm mixing it up, like).**

**Thanks again for bothering to read this, anonymous internet people. It means a lot to me.**

* * *

Just under a month had passed since Draco had surprised Hermione with her birthday present. Since that evening, they had both wandered around in such noticeably blissful happiness that Ginny had begun dropping hints about her glowing complexion and making suggestive comments about the cause of her new-found happiness. Hermione had been sleeping much better too, the dark circles under her eyes fading to ghosts of what they once were, and since she'd been able to hold off the nightmares for longer with distinctively more pleasant dreams about Draco, she'd been holding her food much better which meant that her figure had become more rounded. No longer ashamed of being able to count every rib, Hermione had been dressing better too, to Draco's great satisfaction.

Their relationship had not progressed beyond passionate kissing because, although gong further felt like something she desperately needed to do when she was caught in the whirlwind of his kisses, she knew that she wasn't quite ready yet. Her nightmares may have faded to the back of her mind for the moment, but she could sense that they were ready to resurface at any moment. Besides, she did not much feel like giving herself away to a boy too quickly. Until she was sure that she wouldn't be used and discarded, she would wait.

That said, Draco seemed in no hurry to discard her. It was lucky that their potion had such a long brewing time, or they'd be miles behind since all Draco wanted to do was hold her and be close to her in such a way that left her unable and unwilling to move. The pair had quickly discovered that their moments together in their lab were not enough, and they had begun to look for ever opportunity to snatch moments alone with one another. They would work in the library together, not daring to risk sitting on the same table, but close enough that neither had to raise their head from their work to see the other. It didn't make for great conversation, but it was enough to keep them going until they could be alone without fear of discovery.

A few nights ago, Draco had met her outside for another surprise. Her heart had sunk when she'd caught sight of the broom poorly concealed behind his back. She had insisted that she couldn't fly, although it pained her to admit that there was one Wizarding thing that she couldn't do. He'd brushed away her confession as ridiculous, as though he truly believed that there was nothing she couldn't do. He'd turned a deaf ear to her protests, so she'd resorted to begging him. When that hadn't worked, she'd played her ace and opted for kissing him senseless, hopefully knocking the terrifying notion out of his head. That hadn't succeeded either, although he'd enjoyed it immensely. Nothing was going to dissuade him from putting her on a broom and ripping her from the safety of firm ground. Eventually, she had gritted her teeth with irritation that he merely found amusing, and positioned herself awkwardly on the flimsy stick of wood. Never in a million years would this support her weight, she thought, forgetting in her blind panic that witches much heavier than her had flown easily before.

Draco had settled himself behind her on the broomstick and told her to relax into him. That was easier said than done – she was quite clearly going to die, purely of fright if not actually falling off of the broom, and she had more on her mind in that instant than catering to his whim. She remained as tense as possible, hunched low to the thin bar of wood and hugging it to her with all her might. If only Draco had agreed to go in front, so she could have something slightly more solid to attach herself to. But no, he had wanted her to _enjoy the view_ (as if she wasn't going to have her eyes closed the entire time). Sometimes, she hated his obstinacy. None of her friends had ever practically man-handled her onto a broom before, knowing full-well that they would have made themselves easy targets for one of her more colourful hexes.

Draco had kicked off from the ground, not even having the decency to prepare her for the lurching sensation as she left her stomach behind her. She closed her eyes and wobbled dangerously, but felt Draco's warm arms snake around her body to hold her hands to the wood. A scream died in her throat as they swooped towards the ground – she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of screaming like a little girl. _Open your eyes, Hermione_, he had whispered in her ear, causing goosebumps to spring up along the back of her neck. It was interesting to note that even when she was paralysed with fear her body still responded eagerly to the sound of his voice. And then she did as he had told her, and wrenched her eyes open. The stars seemed to be right above her head, shining brighter than she'd ever seen them, and she felt as though she could almost reach out and touch the dark clouds that softened the cold light of the moon. Behind her, Draco urged the broom forwards and the horizon sped towards them. The wind whipped through Hermione's hair and her fear seemed to evaporate. She laughed out loud with sheer exhilaration as Draco veered to the left. _This is bloody brilliant_, she shouted to the wind and she felt Draco chuckle from behind. Deciding that it was time for her to take control of the broomstick, she directed its nose to the ground as she had seen Harry do so many times.

Land sped towards them and still they plummeted towards it, looking as though they would meet it headlong. Twenty feet above the earth, Hermione pulled the broomstick level with some effort and allowed Draco's hands (slightly shaky, she noted with satisfaction) to direct the broomstick back down. They had landed gently, and Hermione's shaking legs had given way, leaving her lying on her back facing the stars. Her entire frame was trembling with the adrenaline that had coursed through her veins. Draco smiled indulgently and flopped down beside her on the grass. _I did the same thing, the first time. Nothing quite like it, is there?_ he'd said, staring up at the starry sky. Hermione had to agree. She mentally kicked herself for not having had the courage to try it sooner. Which, oddly enough, was the way she was starting to feel about Draco.

That had been a Monday night. Today was Thursday, and Hermione was sitting in the library with a look of intense concentration on her face. Draco was not with her, for once, as it was a free period that the two of them did not share. Ordinarily, Hermione would be using this time to get ahead in the course, but today she was staring in frustration at an almost blank sheet of parchment. Several other pieces of parchment, screwed up into balls and scattered around the table, marked previous failed attempts. Unconsciously, she chewed the end of her quill, searching desperately for the right words to write down. So far, she had written "Dear Ron" and then promptly scribbled out the 'dear'. _Stupid, stupid letter_ she cursed, balling her fists in anger. She was sorely tempted to give up trying to do the right thing and leave Ron hanging for the rest of eternity. However, her relationship with Draco had finally given her a push in the right direction – she knew that she needed to free herself from her past by telling him once and for all what he had done to her. She needed to make him understand that they couldn't be friends anymore, that she wasn't strong enough yet to even be reminded of his presence through letters, that she needed to sever her ties with her past in order to have a future.

She screwed up her fifth piece of parchment and began again. This time, she tried to conjure up thoughts of Draco rather than memories of Ron and found that the words began to flow with relative ease.

_Ron,_

_I'm sorry that it has taken me so long to reply, but I needed time to think things through. A lot of things have happened between us since the Battle where we kissed, and I'm starting to believe that you don't remember much. Your letter was sweet and it sounded like the Ron I used to know, but not the Ron I got to know over the summer at the Burrow. All your talk of making it official, as though we were still in the innocent, naïve stages of our relationship and no mention of what passed between us, broke my heart. It reminded me of what could have been, what should have been. I don't know how much you remember of that summer, but it changed the way I saw you._

_You say that you love me as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, Ron, but the way you treated me those few months we spent together was not love. You used me and tossed me aside when you were done, like a piece of meat. You weren't you, I know that all too well, but it was still your face, your hands and your body doing those things to me. I tried so hard to bring you out of your shell, out of the dark corner of your mind you'd locked the Ron I'd fallen in love with away, but the old Ron never came back. Grief destroyed the Ron I loved, and left in his place a sorry wreck of the past who was capable of horrible things._

_I know that, in grief, the mind can shut down completely and let the body be ruled by instinct. I know that it's possible, probable, that this happened to you that summer. I know, too, that what you suffered in losing Fred induced something called a 'Fugue State'. My brain tells me all of this, but my heart whispers that wherever you'd gone was not far enough away – that you must have known what you were doing as you did it. For a long time, I waited for my actions to pull you back; I still thought that love could conquer all, as Dumbledore had once insisted. My love didn't bring you back, no matter what I gave you._

_I don't want to have to drag the past up more than necessary – my nightmarish memories are vivid enough without me having to put it down on paper – but you need to know the reason I can't let you live with even the slightest hope of my returning your professed love now, so ask Ginny. She knows the bones of the sad story, as much as I could bear to tell her. You haunt my nightmares every night without fail, so you understand why I can't face seeing you anymore. I couldn't fix you, Ron, however hard I tried. And in trying, I only broke myself._

_I'm sorry that it has to be this way, and I'm sorry that I can't explain what you've done to you. I'm happy that you're back, Ron – know that we all missed you terribly – but I'm not the Hermione you knew anymore. I have to ask you not to reply to this letter, however much you want to understand. Every reminder I have of you opens the wound your actions left a little wider, and I'm scared that one day it'll consume me and there will be nothing left of the girl I once was._

_I waited for you for a long time, and it tore my heart to pieces. Please don't wait for me._

_Hermione_.

Hermione looked over the words in front of her, proof-reading them as she would have done a run-of-the-mill essay. After several minutes of reading and re-reading, she decided that it would do as a first draft. She couldn't quite face writing it all over again so soon, even with comforting thoughts of Draco. The memories were just too painful for her to relive again today. She'd wait until her customary nightmares and late-night vomiting were over, and then rewrite the letter while the events were still fresh in her mind. Somehow, she had to get across the things he had done to her without actually telling him the whole painful story.

A small part of her did feel sorry for Ron, the real Ron, who had woken up from his grief-induced sleep thinking that it was the day after the battle and that everything was fine between them. It was so far from the truth, and so close to the way it should have been. But it was too late now, fugue state or not. She was happier than she'd been for a very long time, thanks to her extremely unexpected relationship, and she didn't want to jeopardise her new-found peace by dwelling in the past.

As though Draco had sensed that she'd been thinking of him, he appeared from between two bookshelves a few meters from her. There was a smattering of other people around, so he pretended to pick up a book and read it, subtly jerking his head towards the exit once he'd made sure he wasn't being observed. She gathered her things and followed him at a safe distance. Lately, she'd caught herself wishing more and more that they could be like any of the other normal couples around school. She wanted to be able to hold his hand in public, to be able to actually walk around with him without worrying about raising suspicion. It hadn't helped to be around Luna and Dean, both very publically enjoying their blossoming romance.

She contented herself with watching Draco's form cut through the air as though he were still on a broom. His feet barely touched the ground and his head was held high, despite the glares he received from several people as he walked by. Hermione returned those glares with death stares of her own, leaving the offending students completely at a loss as to how they'd managed to get on her bad side.

* * *

Ron was sitting on the edge of his bed, as he had been for a few weeks, staring expectantly out of the window. He had adopted this stance every day for hours since he'd sent the letter to Hermione, waiting for a reply. He'd been utterly bemused when he'd woken up at the start of September in his own home, still believing it was the day of the battle. He hadn't quite believed it when his parents told him that he'd missed months of his life, until they showed him the date on the Daily Prophet.

The first thing his mind had jumped to, of course, had been Hermione. To him, it seemed as though it were literally yesterday that they'd kissed in the middle of the battle – a snatched second of happiness in amongst destruction and chaos. But his parents explained to him that she'd left rather suddenly several weeks earlier and was now back at Hogwarts with Ginny. The last part hadn't surprised him, in all honesty. He knew her too well to suppose she'd ever have given a second thought to his childish dream of the three of them (Harry, Hermione and himself) becoming aurors together without at least first finishing her NEWTs. Her sudden departure came as more of a surprise to him. That she'd been living with his family was understandable, given that her parents were still in Australia where she'd sent them under a memory charm, but that she'd left without warning and chosen to spend the remainder of her summer holiday alone in a cold house surprised him. His first thought was that she must have gone to track her parents down and restore the memory of her existence to them, but he later remembered that she couldn't possibly risk undoing a powerful memory charm so soon after it was cast without chancing permanent brain damage.

The gaping hole in his memory left so many unanswered questions, but he preoccupied himself first and foremost with their relationship. In a moment of uncharacteristic eloquence, much aided by a bottle of firewhiskey he had been saving in his room, he had composed a letter that expressed his love for her. He knew that something must have happened to her, but he'd waited for far too long to give up on their relationship so soon. Then, when he hadn't heard back, he'd begun to worry.

And so he found himself sitting on the edge of the bed scanning the clear sky for hope beyond hope today as every other day since he'd sent the letter. Today, though, his watchful eyes noticed a speck that slowly grew into the familiar shape of Hermione's school owl of choice. His heart leapt in his chest at the prospect of finally hearing from her, and he rushed to open the window, tripping over several objects in the process. The owl gave him an irritated peck, as though somehow regarding Ron's uncurbed excitement with disdain, and flew away as soon as its claw was freed from the letter. Ron hurried back to his bed, opening the letter as he moved, with a curious mixture of apprehension and happiness. A warm feeling spread through him as he took in his name, written in her neat handwriting that he'd missed so much. He smiled at the memory of all the notes that he had copied from her over the years, all in the same precise font.

The smile died on his lips as he read on, and by time he'd finished reading he was desperate to understand everything. The letter dangled loosely from his right hand as he stared at the ceiling, willing himself to remember something, _anything_, from the past few months. He had done something that had cost him Hermione, and he wanted more than anything in the world to understand what it was. Abandoning his futile attempts to scour his memory for answers that he simply didn't posses, he sent an urgent owl to Ginny via Errol (not trusting Pig to get there in under a week) asking her to explain everything to him.

She complied that same evening, much to the relief of his tortured mind. It was short-lived relief, however, as confusion quickly turned to self-loathing. Ginny was unable to tell him much, so their entire talk didn't last more than 20 minutes, but it was more than enough for Ron. He paced around his room, muttering to himself about doing something to show how truly sorry he was. He didn't remember any of what he had done, but that wasn't really any excuse. In the end, more out of a selfish instinct that he couldn't repress than a belief that it would solve anything, he resolved to see her one last time. Ginny had mentioned that this coming Saturday was their Hogsmeade weekend, and he already knew that Harry was going so he decided to go along with him.

* * *

Ron chose to ignore the fact that Harry and Ginny were shooting him sidelong glances and dropping not-so-subtle hints that they wanted to be alone. He didn't even seem to care when they started kissing, so preoccupied was he with looking out for Hermione's characteristic bushy tangle of hair. To be honest, he'd been counting on the fact that Hermione and his sister were friends as an assurance that he'd see her. Of course, he hadn't taken into account that Hermione was likely to be a little more sensitive towards Harry and Ginny's grand reunion than he was.

Finally, just as he was becoming sick of the sweet nothings the pair of them was whispering to each other, he spotted Hermione coming out of shop a little way down the road. He dashed towards her, abandoning the couple (whose sigh of relief was audible even to his ears) in his mad chase. Just as he neared her, she looked up from her purchase and caught sight of him. Ron was stopped short by the look of fear that flitted across her face. Her mouth opened and closed in shock, and for the first time since they'd met she was struck speechless.

"Hullo," he said rather awkwardly, trying not to notice as she backed away from him slightly.

"W—What are you doing here, Ron?"

"I guess I came to apologise to you directly. I know that you said you didn't want to see me again, but I couldn't just leave it at that. I talked to Ginny, like you said, and there are so many questions that I just can't answer.

Hermione looked faint, as though her knees were about to give way. The colour had drained from her face, and her dark eyes stood stark out from her face. Ron noticed how much she'd changed since the last time he'd seen her (which, to the best of his memory, was several months ago). She'd lost a lot of weight, so that her cheekbones were more prominent. She was still beautiful, just not the youthful girl he'd idolised for so long. He was confronted by the realisation that something had changed deep inside her – that she was a woman now.

"Can we do this somewhere more private?" he asked her, conscious that his sister's eyes were boring a hole in his back from over Harry's shoulder. Hermione hesitated for a long time, so long that Ron thought that she was more likely to turn and run than to answer his question, but finally she nodded. They crossed the street and found themselves a table close to the door in Madame Puddifoot's. _How ironic_, Ron found himself thinking, _that I've wanted to take her here for such a long time, and now I have under the worst circumstances possible_. He grimaced, thankful that Hermione was still avoiding looking directly at him so that she wouldn't guess his thoughts.

Ron took it upon himself to break the awkward silence between them. "So, erm, how've you been?" he began lamely. His question was met with more silence. _Yeah, probably not the way to start a conversation with a girl you can't remember abusing._ "Sorry, that was stupid. Bloody hell, I just don't know how to do this. I've never been good at finding the right words." He clenched his sweaty palms, balling them into tight fists and kneading his forehead with them. "It's just that I still love you, you know? And I can't understand what's happened between us, because I can't remember anything. It wasn't me, Hermione, I swear. I would never hurt you like that – all I've ever wanted was to be with you…"

"Ron." It was barely more than a whisper, but it cut his ramble short. He looked up from his intense contemplation of his teacup (a sickeningly bright shade of pink) and stared straight into her eyes. Deep, dark pits in which anguish burned like a flame he was powerless to put out. "There's someone else. He makes me happy, makes me forget –" she cut off, choking on the memory. She'd moved on, is that what she was trying to say?

"What… Who is he? Do I know him?" She looked suddenly weary, propping her head up with her hand as though his questions had drained the last of her energy.

"Does it really matter, Ron?"

No, she was probably right. It wasn't as though he had a right to know the ins and outs of her love life. He was just surprised that she'd managed to get over being in love with him so quickly. And all this psychological trauma that he'd supposedly caused her (although he had no memory of doing so, and Ginny only knew about it from Hermione's life) had suddenly vanished with the appearance of this mystery guy? Ron felt anger boiling inside him.

"Yes, it fucking matters. You tell me you can't see me because I, what, I raped you? And yet you're fine with moving on to the next male you can manipulate into loving you? What is it you want, heartbreak? What the _fuck_ do you want from me, Hermione? Is anything you've told me about what I did even true, or is it all part of some plan to get rid of me?" He wasn't even aware that he was shouting at her, ignoring the flecks of spittle that were flying from his raging lips and the looks that he was getting. Nor did he see that Hermione was trembling, cowering away from him as far back in the booth as she could get. He continued screaming words that he didn't really mean, his conspiracy theories getting wilder and louder and Hermione getting paler and paler.

"Sir? I'm going to have to ask you to leave." A harsh female voice interrupted his tirade. He promptly told her to 'fuck off and mind her own business'. Before he could fully register what was happening, he was being levitated out of the coffee shop and was unceremoniously dumped right in a puddle outside. It shook him back to himself, and he was filled with remorse. When he tried to go back into the shop to apologise, he was stopped by Madame Puddifoot herself, who stood firm in the doorway and threatened to hex him again if he didn't clear off. So Ron left, drained of his anger and filled with another question. Where had all that anger come from? He was jealous, sure, but even when he'd been under the influence of that bloody horcrux he'd never reacted so violently.

He hid around the corner, waiting for Hermione to come out so that he could apologise to her. It was at least ten minutes before he saw her stumble onto the pavement, supported by Madame Puddifoot. Draco Malfoy emerged from a dark alleyway and approached Hermione. Ron pulled out his wand and was about to leap to her defence when he saw her fall into his arms. He watched, horrified as Malfoy slipped a comforting arm about her waist, kissing the top of her head. She leant heavily on him as they disappeared up the alleyway from whence he had come. Her _someone else_ was Draco fucking Malfoy?

* * *

Draco shifted Hermione against his hip slightly, adjusting her position so that he could support her weight more easily.

"Not far now, love," he murmured against her hair. It was unlikely that she even heard him, but the words were more to comfort himself. He should never have listened to her, should never have let her disappear into the café with the other man even when she signalled to him as he lurked in the shadows of the alley that it was alright. When Ron had landed with a bump a few metres away from Draco's hidden form, worry began to gnaw at his intestines. By the time Hermione had been half-carried out like a baby, he'd been seconds away from bursting into the café, rumours be damned. His worry had increased tenfold when he'd seen her shaking form, looking even more frail in contrast to the robust Madame Puddifoot, so that he'd been able to think of nothing but holding her safe in his arms.

Now, though, his arms were getting tired. Despite his relatively fit physique, Quidditch had in no way prepared him for supporting the weight of a girl only a head shorter than him. She was thin enough that he'd made it quite deep into the heart of little lanes that budded from the high street, but even so, he was getting cramp. He paused again for another rest, and hugged her closer to him. She hadn't looked up from the ground since she'd emerged from the café, and her breathing was worryingly shallow. He needed to get her somewhere safe, and soon.

As though in answer to his thoughts, Draco walked straight into a very familiar plant. This time, he didn't so much curse it as mentally dance for joy. The familiar tea shop appeared at the end of the road, even more covered in creeping ivy than the last time he'd seen it (if such a thing were possible). It seemed to take forever to reach the shop, but the moment they stepped inside, Draco knew he'd done the right thing. It was still just as deserted as before, and the aroma that assuaged his nostrils was just as comforting. He headed for the same chair as he'd sat in before, choosing it for its comfortingly worn look and proximity to the roaring fire. Once he'd settled the unresponsive girl in the chair and tucked a blanket around her, he approached the counter.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" he called, urgently ringing the small silver bell he found. The bead curtains parted with a sound like falling rain hitting a window, and the Irish woman he'd spoken to before emerged bearing a large steaming cup of something.

"Hullo again. I thought you'd be back soon, but even I didn't see you bringing a guest."

"Something's wrong with her, and I didn't know where else to go," he replied, worrying his lower lip. He still wasn't used to asking people for help, so the situation he now found himself in was almost entirely alien to him.

"You did the right thing bringing her to me. There are some things your magic just can't help, but I think I've got something for her."

"Do you know what the matter with her is?"

The plump woman quirked an eyebrow, as though surprised that he didn't, but nodded.

"I can guess." Draco well remembered how accurate her 'guesses' could be, so tried to press for more information. She held up the hand that wasn't holding the cup, stopping his questions. "I can't tell you, though. That's for her to do in her own time, dear." He huffed, but agreed reluctantly that Hermione should be the one to tell him, if she wanted to.

They walked over to where Hermione was still staring blankly at the flickering flames, and the woman lifted the still steaming cup to her lips. Hermione drank the liquid obediently, seemingly unaware of her actions. Draco noted that the tea she was drinking had both a different colour and a different smell to the one that he'd been served. Hers was a deep, translucent red and smelled faintly of cranberries, whereas his had been an opaque blue with swirls of silver. It did not seem to have an immediate effect on her, but gradually her eyes fluttered shut and she slipped into sleep. Draco breathed an audible sigh of relief at the sight, and looked up to find the woman staring at him curiously, intently studying his face.

"I never asked you your name," she said, suddenly breaking the silence.

"Draco. Draco Malfoy."

"Aislinn McMullan." They shook hands jokingly. "Draco's an interesting name, you know. It means 'dragon', so a passionate personality, but it's also the name of a constellation that never sets. I think its closest meaning would be 'the ever-burning star'."

Draco didn't quite manage to suppress his sceptical snort.

"Onomastics is important, whether parents take into account the meaning of the names they give their children or not. My given name, Aislinn, means 'she who has visions' – pretty accurate description of me. You might not believe me, but a name can shape the individual a great deal. It determines who you are."

Draco didn't have a hard time believing her. His entire existence had revolved around his family's name. From a very early age, he'd been taught that his name was the most important thing he possessed, that he had to act in a certain way in order to live up to it. But in his mind, names were a heavy burden to bear. Nothing good had come of his being a Malfoy, so he struggled to accept that his given name somehow made him a better person.

"She's going to be asleep for quite a while – this sort of healing takes a fair bit of time – so can I bring you anything?" Aislinn asked, drawing him from his thoughts.

"No thank you. I didn't bring any money with me," he said with slight embarrassment. He left out the fact that he didn't actually have any money to bring, thinking that it was probably best that he didn't unburden himself to complete strangers.

"Cake's on me," she said, handing him a plate with a slice of the richest looking chocolate cake he'd ever seen. He accepted it gladly, wondering briefly how it had suddenly appeared in her previously empty hands. The smell of the cake was too mouthwatering for him to mull over the nature of her magic for too long, though, so he curled up at Hermione's feet, resting his head on her knee and savouring cake. When the distraction of the food was over, he stayed as he was and listened to the sound of Hermione's gentle breathing and the fire's periodic crackling.


End file.
